When I was a child, seven and eight years old, God used to talk to me.  He didn’t have a big, booming voice like is so often portrayed in the movies.  He did have a male voice, so I use the pronoun “he” without hesitation, but it was a calm, almost soothing voice.  He spoke to me when I was most upset, when I most needed to be calmed and soothed.  It wasn’t just the voice (God’s voice was, as I said, almost soothing).  It was what he said, and how he said it.

God spoke to me mostly after disputes with others: family, teachers, or other children.  For years, God’s voice seemed entirely fair to me.  In a calm, reasoned voice, an adult voice that I could trust, God told me, without malice or ill will, and without apparent bias, that I was right.  Yes, in those years, God was always on my side.

Whether I’d been reprimanded by a teacher or teased on the playground; whether I’d fought with my little sister or been scolded by one or both parents; God was always there, ready to speak the moment I retreated to solitude.  In calm, patient, measured tones, God would tell me I was right, and my temper would be soothed, even if resentment lingered.

I don’t remember exactly when I started to question this voice as the voice of God.  But, when I was nine years old, I started to realize that God spoke mainly in my own words.  It would make sense for God to use only words I knew – God wanted to communicate with me, after all, and knew everything about what I knew – but he also tended to use my own style, and there was really no reason for him to do that.

Then, to use a recently-popular political phrase, God flip-flopped.  If my opinion on a dispute changed, so did God’s – or so did the voice’s.  Every once in a while, I’d realize I’d been wrong, and the voice would get right on board with me, while still defending my character.  Then, I began to notice that the voice would often echo my thoughts, sometimes word for word.  My faith in the voice unraveled quickly after that.

One day, when I was nine years old, sitting in my bedroom, I made the voice sing Mary Had a Little Lamb.  He didn’t want to.  I had to force every word.  But there was no doubt that this was the same voice, the one that had confirmed my correctness countless times in countless disputes, singing:

Mary had a little lamb.
His fleece was white as snow.
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go.

I stopped after the first verse.  It was enough.  The voice never spoke to me again.  The silencing of that voice never had a big effect on my faith in God.  In the next few years, my faith would become stronger and more comforting than at any other time in my life.  But I never had a direct line to God again – at least not to his voice.

In recent years, I’ve wondered if I shut off something valuable, a connection to my inner self, maybe even a bit of God within me just learning how to express itself, but I don’t really think so.  It may have been a crutch my self esteem needed at some point, but I think I dispensed with it at about the right time.  I don’t think there was ever much substance to it.  It didn’t increase my awareness of myself or of others.  It just calmed, soothed, and, to a point, kept me entrenched in my own opinions.

That voice is something I never forgot, for whatever reason.  I don’t think I was really hallucinating – it was rarely much louder than a thought.  I never believed that my ears were directly involved in hearing the voice.  Though some would dispute it (I’m still very good at arguing, and occasionally, very occasionally, show a slight stubborn streak), I do think that silencing the voice when I did taught me to question my own views on things, to realize that my current perspective might not always be the most enlightened one.  I might not be perfect at remembering that, but it’s a start.

Though we spent a lot of nights together from that point on, we lived separately for most of the summer.  I continued to think about how to make our lives together.  Cindi had still not chosen a major, though she would have to give it more thought before the fall, since many departments required a decision by the beginning of the junior year.  But the fact remained that I was not sure what she would do after she finished, or whether she would contribute much to our income.  I had to move forward without assuming she would.

So I had a talk with my employers, the apartment owners.  Again, honesty paid off.  You see, I told them I might have to seek other employment soon.  I wanted to give them ample opportunity to find a replacement.  Instead, they had an offer for me.  They had an apartment complex nearer Cindi’s campus.

While it was largely rented out to students, there was a more expensive group of apartments in the complex set apart from the cheaper student apartments.  In short, they were dissatisfied with the job that the manager was doing there, and were ready to let him go.  In contrast, they were very pleased with how I had been running things, and they were willing to make me a nice deal in order to keep me.

The current manager of that complex was given one of the student apartments to live in.  The owners offered me one of the better apartments, plus a covered parking space, if I would agree to manage both complexes.  The pay they offered was almost three times what I made managing just the one complex in the center of town.  It still wasn’t a fortune by anyone’s standards, but it was a start.

It didn’t take long to move my things into the new apartment, a two-bedroom suite with almost twice the square footage of my other place, with much nicer carpet, bigger windows, and a cleaner kitchen.  It was a place good enough to share, and I was soon sharing it.  Cindi moved in, and, when she wasn’t too busy with her studies, actually helped me with my management duties.  It was wonderful, as always, having her company.

The second bedroom was her study room.  We slept together every night, and lived, in my mind, like married people.  To others, I’m sure, we appeared to be the normal cohabitating couple, but it’s often hard to tell the difference these days.  We shared our love in every way now; our sexuality was a natural extension of the love and friendship we’d developed together, and it was an enormous relief to share it.

The covered parking spot went to Cindi’s car.  Managing the complex nearer to Memorial Park, I hadn’t needed one, and had found it best to do without.  Now, when going back to do work on that complex, I usually did so when Cindi was free and could drive me there.  If not, I could make the trip in a half hour, and was used to trips twice that long.  Life has a slower pace when you don’t have a car, and, for years, that had suited me just fine.

Now, however, it was a little more difficult to maintain that slow lifestyle.  I was paid three times as much for a good reason.  There was almost three times as much work to do, and half-hour bike trips really cut into my schedule.  It was good that she could reduce my workload a little, both by driving me back and forth and by helping when she had time.

We shared a lot.  I would read her textbooks while she studied other subjects.  I read most of them, in subjects including economics, literature, psychology, and sociology.  Sometimes, if I was current with her reading, I’d help her think about her assignments, comment on her papers, and, when I could, give pointers when she was stuck.  But, by and large, she did her own work, and I couldn’t help her with her French at all.  I never really aspired to learn a foreign language.

We were a team.  Our job was to make a life together, and we were off to a very good start.  I would have gladly done all the work just to have her around, but she was honorable, and contributed materially to our livelihood by helping with my work.  We had come together through mutual respect of common values, and those same values kept us strong.  It really seemed perfect at the time.

Our only real time apart was when she was in classes or study groups.  And, if she needed to unwind with her fellow students after a long, hard week, I didn’t begrudge her that.  She always called if she was going to be late, and never drove home impaired.  In general, she was never more than 15-20 minutes’ bike ride away, and I could drive home with my bike in the back of her car.

I only did that once or twice before renewing my driver’s license.  Fortunately, I never got into trouble.  I don’t like breaking laws, but I did it only when it was clearly the lesser of two evils.  In my years of getting around on my bike, I had let my driver’s license expire.  But, since I hadn’t forgotten how to drive, it was a simple matter to get it restored, and it made life easier.

There’s a special bond shard between mothers and their sons. I’m not sure it’s universal, but I’ve seen many examples of it. There’s one such example I focus on now: a mother, sitting in her living room, intent on her computer, with her loving son at her side, looking on. I say she’s intent on the computer, but mothers can multitask, and it’s clear that her son, not much more than ten years old, also has a share of her attention.

He’ll lean in a little closer, and she’ll turn to him and smile – a small smile, barely more than a grin, yet filled with warmth and unconditional love. He reacts and smiles back. She puts an arm around him, and he takes a closer look at the screen. From a distance, I hear muted conversation. I come closer, to hear what they’re saying. If they know I’m there, I get no indication; they seem oblivious to me.

“You’re totally dead,” he says.

“I’m not dead.”

“Yes you are. There’s gotta be ten of ‘em.”

As the words become intelligible, the computer screen, also, comes into focus. She’s not doing work from home; she’s not balancing her bank statements; she’s not even catching up on her email. She’s playing World of Warcraft.

It turns out her son is right. She battles valiantly, but her foes overpower her, and eventually kill her. And so her soul must make its healing journey back to her body. The game gives the impression that it’s a long journey, but, in real time, it doesn’t take very long. This is, after all, a video game.

And so, as from time immemorial, mother and son share in activity, in conversation, and bond over a shared interest. This is special time, and I withdraw again, giving this private moment back its privacy.

Later, the same small boy is seen logging into the computer on his own. This time, it’s his dad who shares a moment with him. “You are NOT playing World of Warcraft!” he roars. The boy silently and dutifully logs off. We should not be too hard on old Dad. His son IS only ten, and, while he may have no authority over his wife’s addiction, he may yet be able to save his son.

And so, the boy has re-learned a valuable lesson: don’t play when Dad’s around. Like so many addicted people, his desire must be tempered by watchfulness, and his impulse by cunning.

There is one final episode that I’m privileged to witness. He wants his mother’s help. “Play my character,” he begs. This is not one of those stereotypical houses where the kids are the masters of technology. Mother still has a few lessons to teach him.

So, she agrees, standing behind him as he logs in and enters his realm. It’s clear that mother and father are not united regarding this game. But children have always known instinctively how to deal with mixed messages: they pick the messages they like best.

She sits down to play, and reacts almost immediately. “What did you DO?” she demands. “You can’t log out in the middle of a battle,” she scolds. “You’ve got to go somewhere safe when you log out!” There’s more desperate fighting, and another death. Then, she’s free to whip his character into shape.

“You’re carrying too much,” she says with motherly concern. “You’re going to have to sell some of your stuff. The transactions are made. He’s traveling light, and he’s got some extra cash. I presume, at this point, that she worked to develop his skills, took him on a quest or two, and left him ready to play again, more skilled and better prepared than he was before. Isn’t that what a mother’s job is, after all?

That was the last I saw of the mother and son crafting war together. They live far away from me now, and I don’t get to see them very often. But the scene has stuck with me. It seems like, whatever humans are presented with, by nature or by other humans, they continue to react in recognizably human ways.

If much of this seems like the perfectly normal beginnings of a relationship to you, I should point two things out.  First, it was not normal for me.  As you must have gathered by now, if anybody is reading this at all, I am no Casanova.  I have always pursued principles that I feel are more important than socially interacting with everyone who happens by.  My feeling has always been that anyone worth knowing would be deep enough to see past my lack of social skills.  (This does not mean, however, that everyone deep enough to see past my lack of social skills is worth knowing.  I have, on occasion, forgotten this.)

The second thing I should point out is that the relationship was perfectly normal.  It was proceeding in a perfectly normal fashion, despite the curves I threw at it.  It seemed to be a force more powerful than Cindi and me put together, and it seemed to accommodate my values only as a temporary measure.  And, when it saw fit to have me compromise them, it bore down hard, until I relented.

I rationalized every step, of course.  At first, as you’ve seen, it was merely a matter of postponing caution, letting things progress.  I still can’t convince myself any of that was actually wrong – except inasmuch as it is wrong to place oneself in the way of temptation.  Still, I had no reason to believe I would fall.

Each time Cindi and I parted, however, it became more difficult to say goodbye.  Sometimes, it was even painful.  And, as we kissed, feeling so close, I was torn apart inside.  The part of me resolved to refrain from sexual relations until marriage was directly at odds with the part of me that wanted to get closer and closer to Cindi.  There are so many ways to get close with someone, and I tried all I could think of.  Indeed, they worked.  We talked, laughed, learned all about each other.

But somehow I always wanted more.  Furthermore, I could see that she did, as well.  And, despite the efforts of both of us to be close, we felt a distance growing again.  This time, however, we both knew why, and we each knew the other knew why.  So, for a long time, we never said anything.  We avoided closeness to lessen the pain of parting, but it was a useless effort.  Being apart was even more painful.  It felt like a trap.

Was it time to be married?  Clearly not – she had to finish college.  She was in Liberal Arts, and had started the year before I met her.  Now, she was just finishing her second year.  It was spring, and we had known each other for about nine months.  That is when I felt the need to talk with her again.  And this is another conversation burned upon my memory, word for word.

“We need to talk,” I said to her.  We had actually not seen each other for almost a week, which would have, at one time, been very much unlike us.  Even though we both understood the problem, the time had come to do something about it – to decide whether to continue or to break it off.  The dynamics of the relationship no longer allowed compromise, it seemed.

She looked pensive, but agreed.  We needed to talk.  We were past the point where this talk was a risk to our relationship.  Not talking was a bigger risk, and we both knew it.  The past week of absence from each other was a testament to that fact.  I knew that something in my life – my relationship with Cindi, my principles, or some unanticipated combination of the two – was about to change, and that this very talk would set the direction of that change.

So I imagine I looked pensive, too.  Where I felt torn before, I felt the weight of the decision before me pressing down with devastating force.  It was enough to confuse me deeply – I had no idea how to proceed logically, or even honorably.  It was one of the most baffling moments of my life, yet it was a comfort to have her around to help, despite the fact that it was her crisis, too.  This is how good a friend she had become to me.

We talked about marrying right away.  It might have been the right thing to do, thinking back – but then maybe things would not have turned out any better.  At the time, the obstacles seemed too great.  Her family had mixed feelings about me.  They felt I was very honest and kind, but also were concerned over an apparent lack of ambition on my part.  There, I can hardly blame them.  In fact, I had already started to give thought to how I could provide a better life for her.  But that’s all I’d done: give thought to it.  There was no plan of action, and certainly no plan in action.

Overall, it just made sense to wait until she finished college to get married.  This would give us time to see what she would want to do with life, and would give me time to think about making a better living.  I had never really had a reason to make a better living before.  So we talked a while about just not seeing each other at all for a couple of years, and coming back together once she was about to graduate.

But this was as impossible emotionally as it was flimsy logically.  Our hearts and intellects both balked at the idea.  You should understand, we were in a world where things happened very quickly – in just over nine months, we had developed a relationship that felt this strong.  How could we endure two years apart?  A lot can happen in two years.  Even if we could endure the time apart, it felt like too big a risk – we could lose each other in that time.

We didn’t need to talk about maintaining the status quo.  We both knew that couldn’t work much longer, and was already beginning to fail.  It was why we were having this talk.  At about this time in the conversation, we found ourselves holding each other tightly and desperately, like two small children in mortal danger with nobody else to turn to.  I had no idea how this had happened – we had been on a bench outside the Liberal Arts building at her school when the conversation had started, feeling awkward and sitting a good three feet apart.  Now, we were clutching each other like terrified babies, and we must have been a sight to see.
Somewhat embarrassed, we let go, sat next to each other, and continued to talk.  We had to grow closer, we concluded, or break it off entirely – not without hope of ever getting back together, but certainly without assurance of it.  And we knew, once we faced the prospect head on, that separation was more than we could bear.  It was true for me, and I believe that it was true for her, or that she felt it was.

So that left only the question of how to grow closer.  She wanted to honor my principles, and we both wanted to honor the relationship – calling it a relationship seemed to trivialize the whole thing.  Relationships are things that people seem to fall into and out of with amazing regularity.  But we had nothing else to call it, as deep and wonderful as it seemed, and as profound and life-changing as it undoubtedly was.

Now, I see the logic we used to come to our conclusion as twisted and tortured, almost beyond belief.  Undoubtedly, many of you see that, as well.  In my own defense, I can say only two things: first, I did not know then what I do now – hindsight may not be twenty-twenty, but it’s certainly clearer than foresight; and second, we were, quite simply, not operating on logic.  We felt there were more powerful forces in action.  So we went forward, knowing we needed to keep the relationship alive.

I was faced with the need to justify my principles, not to Cindi, who felt immensely guilty for putting them at risk, but to myself.  I, in turn, felt immensely guilty for making her feel so bad.  While most of the principles I’ve mentioned were based on simple honor and honesty, on fairness and respect for my fellow man, I could not say the same thing for my beliefs on the sanctity of marriage.

Yet they had served me well over the years, and kept me from many emotional entanglements that would not have been profitable for me.  Even with Cindi, they had served me well – they had deepened her respect for me, and had shown even more clearly the solidity and substance of my character.  Given all that, they were not to be given up lightly.

We talked in circles for a long time, and seemed to get nowhere.  We needed marriage, and could not have it (so we reasoned), and she was unwilling to compromise my principles.  She was more adamant about that than I was.  Indeed, I was weak.  But I said that it was time for another promise.  So the futile circle of conversation was broken, and we talked about engagement.  No ring for now, we decided.  That was a mere symbol, and one that we could add to the formula any time we saw fit – probably when I, or we, could afford a better ring than finances then allowed.

To the outside world, what happened that day looked like less than an engagement.  But, in truth, it was much more.  It was a marriage.  We did not make our promise right there on the bench.  It seemed too important to do there.  We went back to my place and discussed it more.  We decided to write down ideas and compare notes.  It wasn’t long before my thought on the matter had condensed itself into a short paragraph, and that short paragraph was done before she had written down five words.  She decided not to change a thing.

It was dark before we ventured out to the VFW park, a short walk from my apartment, and stood under the canopy of a weeping willow, with a lamp nearby, shining through the leaves, casting stark shadows on us, the grass, and a nearby picnic table.  Other lampposts were visible, but none seemed to be casting substantial light on us.  Clouds obscured the stars and moon.  All we had to see each other by was that one light, divided by thousands of leaf-shapes in hundreds of long, stringy lines.  The image in my mind is as clear as a photograph to this day.

The willow arched over us like a cathedral that night.  Although I had been in that park hundreds of times before and have been many times since, it never felt that special or sacred before.  My words took the form of a promise.  We read it to each other, made that promise to each other, and walked solemnly yet joyously back to my apartment, hand in hand.

We slept together that night, for the first time.  There was a closeness, a freedom, we felt which had eluded us for some weeks, and had never, in fact, been as complete as it was right then.  And I say this despite the fact that we both remained almost fully clothed, and really just slept together.  It was enough for right then.

I still have the paper I wrote our promise on.  It’s deeply important to me, to this day, and has everything to do with what happened as time went on.  And so here are the words from that paper, copied word for word:

You are the love of my life; a companion I never want to live without.  To preserve our friendship, our companionship, and our love, I promise to nurture it throughout life, whatever life may bring.  I will honor our love throughout life’s trials, as long as both you and I live in this world.

It’s easy to argue now that it was too early to make promises like that, amounting to a secret marriage.  But you know what I think about promises.

For a while, Cindi and I were as close as ever – maybe even closer.   And, even when I sensed a distance building between us, it was hard to put my finger on.  I wasn’t even sure, for a while, that it was real.  I did nothing during that time to increase that distance, and I even tried to close it.  But it soon became clear that just passively trying to be close wasn’t going to work.  Something was bothering her, and I needed to find out what it was.

It wasn’t easy to find out.  She avoided the issue – because I couldn’t put my finger on just what was happening, why I sensed the distance, I also couldn’t make her face the issue.  I came to realize she was not being honest.  Dishonesty is easier to fall into than many realize, and it’s expected and tolerated in many circles.  But it was time to clarify another aspect of our relationship.

“You realize how important honesty and integrity are to me,” I said.  “I do everything within my power to live with honor.  You know this, don’t you?”  She nodded.  I continued.  “I need and expect the same from those I am close to.  Perfection is impossible, but I need to know if I can always count on you to be honest and honorable to the best of your ability.”

She looked up at me, seeming both shy and humble – almost fearful.  “I will,” she said.  “I’ll do my best for you.”

I was glad to hear this.  It surprised me to realize that I had not asked her this fundamental question earlier, before becoming so close.  It was a relief for me to find out that this was okay.  I smiled and looked on her tenderly.  I knew that honesty and integrity are heavy, difficult subjects when one feels vulnerable.  “That’s all I ask of you,” I said, smiling bigger to try and get her to smile, too.  “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

She appeared to relax a little, but remained silent.

“Please tell me,” I repeated, “or look into my eyes and tell me that nothing is wrong.”

She looked into my eyes, and I realized right then that she wasn’t smiling, and hadn’t smiled in my presence for some time.  It may even be how I sensed there was distance.  How subtle the signs of the inner mind’s workings can be sometimes!  “There’s something wrong,” she said, “but I’m afraid to tell you.  Maybe it’s just silly, but I’m afraid to tell you.”

“We can be good friends if you never tell me,” I said.  “But you can sense how this is putting some distance between us.  Many good friends have a little distance between them.  It’s your choice.  I think we can be much closer, like I think you and I both want to be, if you tell me.  I can’t imagine anything you can tell me that would make me think less of you right now.  I think you risk more by not telling me.”
I felt every word that I told her.  I wanted her to be open with me.  I was willing to take the risk, to learn more about her.  An honest person has nothing to hide from those who are close to them, those whom they trust.  “Do you trust me?” I asked.

“Yes, more than anyone I’ve ever known,” she said.  “I’m just afraid you won’t understand.”

“If I don’t understand right away,” I said, “you can help me until I do.”  By this time, I was wondering if she were dangerous, if she’d been a criminal.  I was ready to accept anything.  This is how important she was to me.  Already, I was beginning to wonder if such devotion to someone I’d known such a short time were wise.  But that was premature.  I didn’t even know what she had to say.

“Remember that night I slept over?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“And you told me you’d never…”

“Yes, I hope that isn’t a problem,” I answered, half joking.

“No, of course not,” she replied.  “I told you, I admire that.”

“I don’t seem to be reading your mind yet.”  I tried not to sound impatient.  “Can you just tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m not as … admirable as you are,” she told me after a long pause.

Then it was my turn to pause.  Was she just concerned that I would not accept her past?  Did she think I was a prude, demanding celibacy – virginity, even – just because I had made that choice for myself?  Or was there more?  But I’d come to trust her – I knew something of about her moral fiber, or thought I did.  So I couldn’t think what else it could be.

I’d paused too long.  She was looking uncomfortable.  “Are you talking about the past?” I asked.  “Before we became close?”

“Oh yes, of course!” she said.  “Long before I even met you!  And I’m not ashamed of it – but I was afraid you’d see me as tainted or something.”

And I was relieved.  “Is that all it is?” I asked.  “Is that really all there is?”  I took her hand in mine and said, “Your experiences have formed you, made you who you are.  And I like who you are.”  She smiled, possibly for the first time in days.  “You and I will never be the same person,” I continued.  We will never hold the exact same values.

“You and I are still learning about each other.  But I want to learn about who you are now, not what you did then.  We don’t need to discuss your past at all except when you want to, if it bothers you.  As we learn about each other, we may grow closer or we may grow apart.  But your past will never make me grow apart from you.  Now, are you sure that’s all?”

Before she answered, I knew that was all.  I could see it in her smile.  “Yes,” she said, visibly relieved.  “Yes, that’s all.”

So it was a big deal over nothing.  Even now, despite all that’s happened, I still see it that way.  Her smile spoke volumes to me.  I do not have the gift of an infectious personality.  When I go on and on for more than a sentence or so, as I had just done with her, most people’s eyes tend to glaze over.  It makes it difficult for me to make friends.  I have to keep everything short and sweet or nobody wants to listen.  But many of my thoughts are just too complex to fit nicely into ten-second sound bites.  Cindi always seemed to understand that, and I treasured her for it.

“If that’s all,” I told her, “then it’s nothing.  You never made any claims about your past.  And you’ve never made me any promises about the future.  You could date someone else tomorrow without breech of honor.”

“I don’t want to,” she said quietly, almost whispering.

“You don’t have to want to.  I’m just saying…”

“I know I’m still learning about you.  But I want to make a promise to you, if you will make the same promise to me.”

“I don’t make promises lightly.  But I’m willing to listen.”

And so I listened.  And it turned out not to be such a big deal.  She wasn’t dating anyone else, and neither was I.  And so we agreed to keep it that way – be exclusive.  We were another step closer to each other.  We had that much more trust in each other.  I imagine everyone does these agreements differently.  For us, it just meant that whoever wanted to change the nature of the relationship had to tell the other.  It was very simple; I essentially agreed to do something I would have done anyway – and I think she did, too.

I had no uneasiness about it back then.  But now I do.  It now feels like this is where I began to set myself up – where my caution really began to fail.  But there is no reason to blame myself.  It’s not my fault.  But, as I was saying, things felt pretty good right then.  I’d even started to like how she spelled her name.

To tell the truth, I had given up on finding someone who would see the merits of my viewpoints and life choices so easily.  I still believe that most Americans hold my values; but they don’t realize how irreconcilable they are with other viewpoints creeping into our culture.  I did not have to explain things to Cindi to gain her respect.  I had that from the beginning.  When I did explain things, she did not feel I was preaching to her.  I could be myself, and not worry.  I wanted it to be true, but at first didn’t believe it could be.  As the months wore on, however, I began to accept the evidence.

Change is a constant in the universe.  During that golden time, everything seemed to be changing for the better.  I felt warm and happy about being alive.  So I decided to accept the change in my life as real.  Whether or not the relationship was permanent, I still didn’t know.   But I did know that I had found someone similar enough to me to understand me.  And I knew the significance of that was lifelong, no matter what.

After we made our little promise, after we smiled into each other’s eyes and reveled in our newly found understanding, we kissed for a long time.  It was a long enough time for us to melt together, to feel as if our souls were united for a time, and could speak freely, without the confines of language.  It was difficult to part at the end of the evening.  We felt we belonged together.

I didn’t think much about it again until about a week later.  I was at the hardware store, getting a few items I need for work.  I manage an apartment complex – do minor repairs, cleaning, call in specialists as needed.  It doesn’t pay real well, but it’s good, honest work, the hours are flexible, and I always have a place to live rent-free.  I don’t need much beyond the basics of food, clothing, and shelter.  And my employers love that I never cheat them out of anything.  Never.  Not so much as a wire or a screw or a piece of paper – things some employers tolerate as a matter of course.

So I was there at the checkout counter, when a young lady, about my age, approached me.  At first, I didn’t recognize her.  “You’re the one at the park,” she said.  “At the park, last week.”

As I said, I hadn’t given the incident a lot of thought until that point.  It had been just one of life’s many episodes.  “There were a lot of people at the park last week,” I said.

She smiled.  The smile looked familiar, but I still did not understand.  “The one who made the kids stop trashing the park,” she said.

Then I understood.  She was one of the people who smiled at me as I returned to my friends.  “I did not make them stop.  I just told them my views, gave them a perspective, and they chose to stop, at my request.”

She was still smiling.  It was a beautiful smile.  “That’s what I admired about it,” she said.  “I heard part of it.  Most people wouldn’t have handled it so calmly.”

“Thank you,” I said, genuinely touched.  It wasn’t just a beautiful smile.  She was a lovely girl – long brown hair, startling green eyes that looked as if they had a dimension all their own.  And maybe that influenced how I felt toward her.  But a pretty girl doesn’t usually get to me without some substance, and, to this day, I think she was showing some substance here.

She smiled yet again (what a smile!) and then wrote on a slip of paper taken from her purse.  “You’re welcome,” she said after she finished writing.  She folded the slip of paper and handed it to me.  “I’d like to talk about it some more,” she continued, “if you want to.”  She smiled one more time.  “Bye now!”

“Bye,” I said, and watched her turn to leave.  Her tank top and shorts showed a golden tan that makes a man wonder how a suntan can possibly be unhealthy.  My skin is as white as a sheet.  But it was really difficult to say she’d made a bad choice.  I unfolded the slip of paper.  It said, “Cindi”, and had a phone number.  Cindi, I thought.  C-i-n-d-i.  At least she didn’t dot her i’s with circles or hearts.  And maybe her parents named her that.

Now, I’m not generally one to gush like that about one moment in my life – but this was a defining moment.  It changed the direction of my life.  It started me on the road to where I am now.

I am a cautious person, and I was back then, too.  I held on to the slip of paper, wondering what she wanted.  But, in the end, I saw no real trap.  She may want more than just to talk, but that’s all she asked for, I thought, so she’ll need to accept it if that’s all she gets.  And, while I was figuring that out, I could see her smile again.

So I called her, and we had dinner.  We talked for a long time, and she smiled a lot.  It turned out she was twenty years old, a couple of years younger than I was at the time, and was studying literature at the community college.  She still lived with her parents.  She was a nice girl.  She even made a respectable effort to pay for dinner, at least her part, but was gracious in thanking me when my will prevailed.

I liked her.  She lacked some direction, but I knew a lot of people her age (and older), who did, as well.  It doesn’t make sense to make an uninformed decision just to have a decision made.  She asked if I was “in a relationship” during dinner, but never pushed things further than that.  For the most part, she kept to her word, and just talked.  And so I thought that I would talk to her again.

At the end of the evening, she gave me a soft kiss on the cheek, and said, “You’re a real special guy, Tom.”  It was a little forward, but harmless.  And I have to admit it felt good.  I may have even blushed a little.  I wasn’t used to that sort of thing.  I usually go by Thomas, but decided she could call me Tom.  I do try to be flexible.

So I kept meeting with her, and I kept talking with her.  And we came to like each other quite a lot.  About two weeks after our dinner, she said, “Oh, why don’t you kiss me?”  And so I did, lightly, softly, for about a second.  But that was enough for me to know I’d do it again.  It felt good, and it felt right.  And so we made that transformation – not just meeting now, we had dates.  Not just friends, we were in a relationship – “seeing each other.”  It was a good thing.

It was generally she who had to move the relationship along.  I couldn’t blame her.  I am slow and cautious.  She started to join me as I did some of my outdoor work.  It was good to have someone to talk to.  I read some of the books from her literature classes, and we talked about them.  And so we became involved in each other’s lives.  She became more and more important to me.

Our relationship was a light and easy thing, but with all the depth I could want.  Then, a few months after our first dinner, she asked if she could stay the night.  She didn’t look particularly tired, but I offered to drive her home anyway.  “You’ll be more comfortable in your own bed,” I said.

“I don’t want my own bed tonight, she said, kissing me softly, so that I almost melted right there.  “I want yours.”  And she kissed me again.

Now, I know there are those out there who make sexual relations the goal of every evening when they go out.  And I know there are many others that feel that a relationship just naturally should go there after enough time has passed.  But that is a part of the current American view that I do not share.

“Cindi,” I said gently, “I’m not sure if you realize how much you’re asking of me.  It’s a big step for me.”

“I know,” she said.  “And I respect that, more than you can know.  It’s so different from other guys I’ve known.   But it feels so good to be with you, and I want to share…” and paused, before adding, “…more.”

“It’s a step I don’t see myself taking outside of marriage,” I said.  “It’s a step I’ve never taken before.”

Her eyes widened a bit, but she recovered quickly, and said, “I see.”  She gave me a long hug, kissed me again, and said, “You’re more special than I thought.”

And so I thought the matter was closed.  She fell asleep sitting next to me that night, and I carried her to my bed, covered her up, kissed her forehead gently, and made a bed for myself on the couch.  In the morning, she went home.

So, instead of troubling with a long history of my childhood, I’ll start with a young adult, some five years ago, and thus some five years younger than I am now.  And yet the person that I am now was fully formed then, and acted toward himself and others in a way that I would still be proud to act today.  Just over five years ago, it was – on the Monday of Memorial Day Weekend.

I and a few friends were celebrating with a picnic at Freedom Park, adjacent to the VFW building downtown.  It was and still is a rather large park for being right in the center of town, but it was donated to the city long before the rest of it was built up, under the condition that it be perpetually dedicated to public recreation.  The members of the VFW, as part of their civic service, spend many volunteer hours a year keeping the park clean and well tended.  So, in general, the park is a wonderful place to spend an afternoon, even on summer holidays, when it tends to be crowded.

We had staked out our picnic table and grill early, and were just getting the coals ready to cook when we noticed a group of about 20 high school kids talking loudly and obviously drinking underage.  But that’s their business.  We tried to ignore them.  Others around the park did much the same.  It was a beautiful day, and we were all in good spirits.

But, as our burgers began to get done, the group of kids became more and more unruly.  They became louder, and they began to throw trash on the ground.  Understand that they had a half-empty trash can 20 feet away from them.  Once in a while, they’d throw a bottle at a nearby lamppost to see if they could get it to shatter.  But, because the kids kept mainly to themselves, people kept trying to ignore them.

I didn’t see it quite that way.  Here it was, Memorial Day, the day when we’re supposed to honor those who have given their lives to maintain the way of life that we value so much.  And here we were, in a park maintained by those had fought in these wars, some of them undoubtedly losing very good friends.  And here were a bunch of young, ignorant punks, dishonoring the memories of these valiant men, some of whom were personally known to the very people who kept the park nice for them.  These kids might as well have been spitting upon their graves as defiling their park.

My friends thought I should just ignore them – and perhaps help clean up later, if I felt bad about it.  But I could not let that matter rest.  Against my friends’ advice, I approached them, and asked them politely to stop defiling the park, and to put their trash in the trash can.  I had already learned that respect gains respect in many situations.  So, although I was already very angry by the time I approached them, I was very polite, and told them how I felt about the significance of the day, and of the park, and about the honor of those who died for the country.  Now, many would predict that the kids just laughed me off or that a fight ensued.

Nothing of the kind happened.  The kids said that they were sorry, and were just trying to have a little fun.  They picked up what they had thrown about, including the broken glass, and disposed of it all properly.  I thanked them sincerely, and went back to my friends.  On the way back, I saw some people smiling at me, and I smiled back.  It was a good moment.  The kids continued to be loud, and they played rough games with each other, but they did not defile the park again, so it was easy enough to ignore the noise.  We, and many others, continued to enjoy the park until well into the evening.

I am not the type of person to blame society for my problems.  I believe in honesty and integrity, and in basic respect for my fellow man.  I believe in individual responsibility for individual actions.  I believe that good people do bad things sometimes.  Humans are fallible.  But a good person who does something wrong will see the error in his ways and will both apologize and do everything in his power to set things right.  A man of integrity will spend his life righting a wrong, if necessary.

From the beginning, I must say that I have done nothing wrong.  That is, I have no outstanding wrongs to right.  I lay no claim to perfection, but I do not waver from what I believe in.  Most people in this country, I am firmly convinced, still believe in the principles this country was founded on.  Many, I dare say, are afraid to admit it.  I mourn their weakness, but, in truth, cannot fault them for it.  It takes a lot of strength these days to stand up for what you believe in, and such strength is more often looked down upon than respected.

Those who crave the approval of others have an especially difficult time standing up for their own beliefs.  The craving for approval is a disease from which I suffer very little, if at all.  It is because of this, and not because of any special strength on my part, that I am able to maintain my integrity.  I have sacrificed many things because of this – some would say too much – but it is a small price to pay for the ability to go to bed every night with the certainty that I have done right by the world that day.

Many would say I have no tolerance for other viewpoints.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  I respect any man who stands up for what he believes in.  I respect any man of principle.  And men of principle respect me.  We may differ in political viewpoint, or in religious perspective, but we each have beliefs.  Each of us knows where the others stand, and there is trust that comes from that.  I may disagree with a man to the point of nearly hating him, but, if he stands by his beliefs, I will not disrespect him.

No, it is the person without beliefs that I cannot fully respect.  The “open mind” is an excuse for mindlessness.  The man (or shadow of a man) without beliefs may be intelligent, even clever; but he lacks a foundation.  He cannot stand firm, and every wave of opinion moves him one way or another.  But you can never convince such a person of these things, because he is, indeed, spineless.  He’ll twist not only your words and his, but his very own self, into a bow or a pretzel, until you realize there is no way to pin him down on anything.  You cannot reason with someone who has no foundation from which to build logic.

What others call inflexibility I call dependability.  I will not tell a lie, even to save face or to save feelings.  I do not bend the truth to suit my purposes.  When I transact business, I pay the price the merchant demands.  It is his merchandise, and he can part with it at his discretion.  If the price is too high, I either buy somewhere else or go without.  But I do not cheat the merchant.  And I do not allow the merchant to cheat me.  Not out of a single penny.  A few cents may make no difference to me, but a few cents many times over adds up, and it is too high a price to pay for the ability to tolerate dishonesty.  In truth, I do not want to tolerate dishonesty; so why should I pay anything for the ability to do it?

I extend this principle to the whole of my life.  Showing respect is a marvelous way to receive respect in return.  Respect is my first position in all situations dealing with another human.  I may be dealing with someone whom I know to be the very scum of the earth, but it does no good to treat anyone with open disdain.  It may well be that my respect will be met with disrespect and dishonest behavior.  But, while respect is not always met with respect, disrespect is almost always met with disrespect.  Showing respect, you can sometimes deal with out-and-out criminals and come out with a fair shake.

I learned this from the martial arts.  I have a brown belt in Karate, though I haven’t practiced in several years.  I want to again, when I get the money.  Violence against another human is truly a last resort.  It is not my job to distribute justice in the world; just to look after my own interests.  Even someone who commits a crime against me should be punished by the law, rather than by me, if at all possible.  I say this knowing full well that many, many criminals do not get properly punished, even when they are brought into the hands of the law.  But, while it is my right as an American to speak up about this, it is not my right to take the law into my own hands, unless I absolutely have no choice.

The point is, I believe in treating every individual with respect until I have no choice but to treat him otherwise.  Even those whom I cannot respect intellectually receive the full benefit of my honesty and integrity.  I hope, perhaps, to show by example that the path of honor is the only really sane path to take.  Once convinced of this, nobody is too weak to stand with integrity.  The bad seed is a small minority to start with, but, if there are enough people, a small percentage still adds up to a large number – and a powerful little group gains the strength to grow.

Look at the small town in America.  There are still places, though many would not believe it, where people walk at night in peace and safety.   There are places where nobody locks his door, and nobody suffers any consequences from leaving his house open for all the world.  These are places where a small percentage means a small number, and the bad seed can be readily controlled.  These are places where people come closest to recognizing the benefits of integrity and honesty.  Anyone who leads a life of honor will find peace in himself.  But those who are also consistently treated with honor find peace in the world, as well.

I do not write all of this to convince anyone of my viewpoint.  Those who already agreed will still agree when they are done reading.  And those who did not agree before will walk away still not agreeing.  Maybe nobody will even read this at all.  But I want the chance to exist that someone will read this.  And this chance cannot exist unless I actually write it down.  I have tried to get people to listen to me, and have failed in almost every circumstance.  Most who begin to listen to me know only of my actions, and refuse to understand the reasons behind them.

Many think they understand, but the understandings they’ve formed in their heads are utterly simple-minded, and thus easily dismissed.  Many blame rage when honesty, integrity, and reason have ruled throughout.  It is a natural reaction.  Making my deeds foreign – either inexplicable beyond reason or explainable by easily dismissible delusions that I must hold – makes it easier to believe that the world around them is, in principle, good.  If I maintain any credibility at all, I threaten that belief.  In a way, it is pitiful to watch how tightly some cling to these useless crutches.

So I needed to tell you something about myself first – about who I am, and what I believe.  Those who would judge me should first know this about me.  I strive to lead an honorable and honest life, and to pursue all my affairs with integrity.  I acknowledge my mistakes, especially those where my integrity falters, and do my very best to put right whatever I have made wrong.  I do this not because I feel that I am better than everyone else, but because it is the best way I know to live at peace with myself and with relative peace toward the world.  Most importantly, and I repeat this: I have nothing at this point in my life to apologize for, nothing that I have not, in the past, done my utmost to put right.  Recent events are the result of the lack of honesty and integrity in a few, the lack of insight in a few more, and the lack of access to the proper information for a good many more.

It is this lack of access to information that I hope to set right here.  I cannot see that evil on my part has contributed to these events.  I cannot see that any lack of honesty or honor on my part has contributed to these events.  I do see clearly where adherence to my principles has steered the events, but this is not something that I can apologize for, and it is not something that I can regret.  Some readers may find I am nothing like them, and they will likely be right – and this will probably be easy reading for them.  Others are like me, but will convince themselves that I am lying.  But I challenge these to treat me with the initial respect I grant even the scum of the earth, and they will no longer be able to reach such a conclusion.

I started with a cross-section of who I am now.  This cross-section applies to me during the entire history of what I will relate here.  How I came by my values is not so important, nor do I believe that I have all of the knowledge necessary to explain it properly.  I am sure that the examples of my parents helped a great deal, as did my education, and many of the other things to which we commonly attribute the finer qualities in ourselves.  Why others, who had just as much in the way of education and good examples, somehow lost their sense of honor, I cannot say.  And this is also why I do not feel that I can provide a good explanation of how my values developed.  Suffice it to say that I have them, and that I honestly believe that they are a set of values held deep in the hearts of many, even a majority, of the American people.

I believe that enough time has passed since the events described in the following manuscript that, although many may remember them from news reports, most should be able to read this perspective without taking too much offense.  Indeed, this is not a unique case; many like it have happened before and since.  So I hope that I have waited long enough, and that the presentation at this time is in good taste.

Many will read the following and wonder why I even bother with this preface.  For these readers, I hope that these few paragraphs are short enough that they will not prove too much an inconvenience.  But I do have a warning to give, to those who sometimes feel the need to dehumanize others, to dismiss them as animals in order to keep their versions of the world clean and safe. These should not read further.  They will either dismiss the following outright or have their views severely challenged, and I don’t want to impose such a change on anybody who is not ready for it.

Finally, to those who sympathize with the man who wrote the words below, who may even be on a course similar to his, I hope these pages can be a help to you.  Perhaps, by reading his story and bringing it into your consciousness, you can write a different story for yourself.

Beyond this, the manuscript needs little introduction.  Since there was no trial, the courts had little need for it, beyond establishing its essential truth.  And so, through a friend of mine in the legal system, whose identity I will protect here, I ended up with a Xerox copy of what follows.  The sheets were typewritten, with neither page numbers nor dates, so I doubt that the originals looked all that different from the copies I received.  The sections are mine, not his – but that is the only change I have made to the text, other than typographical niceties, such as substituting italics for underlining and correcting the occasional trivial spelling error.  It seems apparent that the entire work was written within a few days.  And so, until I greet you again at the end, I leave the manuscript to speak for itself.

In 1884, Edwin A. Abbot published a short work of imaginative fiction called Flatland: a Romance of Many Dimensions.  This book has become famous, and has been referenced in countless books and articles about physics, mathematics, philosophy, and other disciplines where multiple dimensions (or even just multiple perspectives) are discussed.  Generally, it’s paraphrased, because the original language has a Victorian feel, and takes some getting used to.

I’d like to concentrate on one character in Flatland, a sphere that visits the two-dimensional world, where the main character, a square (A. Square) resides.  The sphere does this several times, and, every time it does, the Flatlanders see a circle.  The circle grows from a point, and then shrinks back to a point, as the sphere passes through.  The sphere is able to see inside two-dimensional bodies and locked cupboards, and touch their contents.

The author decided to use the simplest possible shapes to populate his universes — squares, triangles, circles, lines, points, and a sphere.  I don’t know his exact motivation, but my guess is that it was to avoid distraction — stretching the imagination is hard enough without having to picture what a human hand might look like in cross section.  But it might have been interesting to have Flatland visited by a cylinder or a cone segment.

The thing about a sphere is that all its cross sections are circles.  But a cylinder can appear to be a circle (just one size, though), or any number of flattened circles with the same radius, a rectangle, or a D-shaped morph of a semicirle.  The cylinder could change shape dynamically, by rotating at various angles through Flatland’s plane.  A cone segment could do the same, being a circle, ellipse, triangle, or its own semi-elliptical D-shape.  The sphere already appears to be something that it’s not: it appears to be a point or a circle.  But the cylinder adds variety to the paradox.  It can appear to be very distinct and different things that it is not.

In 2-D space, a rectangle and a circle have very little in common.  There is no way in two-dimensional space for a shape to be both a rectangle and a circle.  Choose any intermediate shape between circle and rectangle (flatten out the circle, or round out a corner of the rectangle), and you no longer have either one.  Yet a cylinder, without changing shape the slightest bit, can appear to be either one in Flatland.  It can’t be both at once, mind you,  but it can change freely between the two just by spinning around a bit.

Less than 30 years after Flatland  was published, the world of science was reeling from the implications of quantum physics.  People have different reactions to relativity and quantum mechanics, but the latter was always more difficult for me to assimilate.  It depends on what your world view is all about.  If you feel in your gut that time and space are constants, relativity is going to throw you for a loop.  But, after bending my brain around the concepts for a while, I think I was able to accept it, even if I never fully understood it.

But quantum physics is another animal.  Our smallest bits of matter act as either particles or waves — but never both at the same time.  Some argue that a particle can’t have both position and momentum at the same time, but that comes mostly from the fact that we can’t observe both precisely.  For me, learning about relativity was a radical change of view, but learning about quantum mechanics was like losing my religion.  In my own, unscientific way, I tried with all my might to think of ways it might not be true — but, of course, the scientists who’d made the discoveries hadn’t missed anything that I was about to discover.  They know their turf far better than I do.

Now, anyone who’s had discussions about quantum physics has probably encountered a smug, smirking individual who just loves the fact that intuition is assaulted so violently by the facts.  I’ve encountered several.  Sometimes this person has an agenda to interpret the physics to fit a particular philosophy, and sometimes not.  But the smugness irritated me; I wanted to prove those smug scientists wrong!

But, of course, the scientists weren’t the smug ones.  From all accounts I’ve read, quantum physics came as a shock.  Nobody delighted in the discovery.  Scientists fought it.  Albert Einstein, himself, never stopped fighting certain aspects of it, despite having been instrumental in bringing its basic facts to light.  The smug guys came along later, and latched onto it.  I tend to think (without real justification) that most of them never really lost anything when they made their new discoveries.  If you don’t have a paradigm to start with, you don’t have to shift anything to learn something new.  So, I don’t have to prove anybody wrong.  The smug guys aren’t that important.

I read a lot of books about quantum physics to try and get a handle on it.  Each one, of course, felt the need to lay a foundation of classical physics to build from, so the opening chapters in these books grew tedious after a while.  And a lot of them had very similar things to say, and I found no comfort for a long time.  The book that finally did give me a mental framework was Quantum Reality: Beyond the New Physics by Nick Herbert.  As you may guess from the title, this book is more philosophical than other titles I’ve read.  What finally hit home is how much of physics, even classical physics, is mathematical modeling.

Magnetic fields  aren’t real.  They’re a mathematical construct that describes how physical objects act when they come together, especially if one or more of them is magnetic.  The same is true of electrical fields, gravity, and even particles and waves.  None of these mathematical models describes reality exactly.  And I knew that much.  But it’s easy to start thinking that a physical object is some kind of imperfect instance of the mathematical model that describes it, or that the mathematical model is some kind of ideal version of all applicible objects.  But it’s not true.  The model helps to serve intuition, and gives us enormous predictive power over the real world — but that doesn’t make them real, at all.

The main difference between these models and the quantum physics models is that the quantum physics models are not intuitive.  They don’t parallel anything we can observe directly.  You are familiar with a magnet picking up paper clips, and with an apple falling from a tree.  But you have never seen an electron, and will never actually see what happens when it is measured as a wave, rather than as a particle.  You may come up with a better guess at it than anyone else, but you’ll never know for sure.

People writing about quantum physics will talk about waves of probability, as if that’s something real — as if the probability that a particle will show up in one place or another can propogate itself through space as a physical wave.  A common pattern in observation is that, if a particle’s position is measured, it acts like a particle from then on, at least until we lose track of it.  If its position is not measured, it continues to act like a wave.  That is, the mathematical model for a wave fits until we observe it — then the mathematical model for a particle works.  But, as we noted before, waves and particles aren’t real, even in classical physics.

So, an electon doesn’t change from a wave to a particle, any more than the cylinder in my Flatland-inspired scenario changes from a circle to a rectangle.  Sometimes you’ll hear the phrase “wave/particle duality” thrown about, but this does not mean that an electron is a particle and a wave.  What it really means is that an electron sometimes seems to fit the mathematical model of a wave, and, at other times, seems to fit the mathematical model of a particle.  The way I deal with this mystery now is to believe that:

1. An electron is not a particle.
2. Further, an electron is not like what we think of as a particle, even when it’s acting like one.
3. An electron is not a wave.
4. Further, an electron is not like what we think of as a wave, even when it’s acting like one.

There are other quantum mysteries, but they can all be dispensed with, to my satisfaction, by similar methods.

When I say “to my satisfaction”, I do not mean I’m actually satisfied.  I’d still like to know what an electron really is.  But I feel at least like the mystery is no longer in the realm of the paradoxical, but in the realm of the unknown.  So, I think an electron is not only something different from anything we see in the macroscopic world; it’s also something we have absolutely no intuitive feel for.  It’s not simply like a bacterium, different from any life form we know in the naked-eye-visible world, but still understandable on many levels using just classical physics.  This is like an object from a different universe, obeying totally different laws.  The mathematics of how electrons behave is well understood and predictable.  But we simply have no good idea what’s behind the mathematics.

So, what we find when we look at a quantum entity depends a lot on what we’re looking for.  If we look for a particle, we’ll find a particle.  If we look for a wave, we’ll find a wave.  If we look for a particle after observing the wave, we’ll find it.  If we look for a wave after observing a particle — well, too bad.  They’re only so flexible.  So, once a particle, always a particle?  Not really.  If we pin down the position of an electron at any point in time, we automatically lose its momentum, so we have no idea where it goes after that point.  We’ve lost track of it, and it can be like a wave again, for all we know.

Our methods of tracking single electrons or photons generally end with recording them on a sensitive plate, which is able to record where it hit the plate.  After that, you can’t get hold of the same particle again.  At least I’ve never heard of anybody doing that, and I think Heisenburg’s Uncertainty Principle pretty much forbids that.  Record its position, and you don’t know where it went.  Record its momentum, and you don’t know where it was when you recorded the momentum — so you STILL don’t know where it went.

When you hear someone trying to give special meaning to the act of observation, you have to understand that it doesn’t matter whether the observation is recorded or not.  It’s not as if the entrance of data into the human mind is what changes the behavior of a quantum particle.  It’s the mechnanics of taking the observation that changes wave behavior to particle behavior.  A computer can take the observation, and never record or report the observation.  But the particle will still act like a particle after that point — until we record its final position.  Then it’s gone again.  I believe Schrödinger’s Cat is either alive or dead.  There’s nothing magical about opening the box.

So, observation itself does not necessarily affect reality.  The mechanics of observation — that you have to send a photon to intercept or leave a sensitive plate to stop and record the particle is enough.  You find what you set out to measure, but that, again, can be due to the mechanics of the situation.  Like an enzyme can find one protein in a huge, chaotic mess of other chemicals, just by waiting for it to come along, and “fitting” it when it does, perhaps a measurement method will “rotate” the quantum particle into the “position” it needs to be in to act like the intuitive entity being measured.  Whether this is a physical transformation of some kind, a re-arrangement of tiny, tiny component parts, a rotation through other dimensions, or something even further outside our imaginations, I cannot say.  Nobody can say for sure.  There are theories, like string therory, where other dimensions are actually involved.

The point I’m trying to distill from all this is that, when you’re dealing with the unknown and unobservable, even the most precise predictors are analogies at best.  Whatever you think an electron is, you know that it’s certainly something else, something totally outside the realm of your experience.

So my thinking is that the mysteries of quantum physics are no more paradoxical than what a cylinder in Flatland can do.  Wave/particle duality, in my thinking, is akin to circle/rectangle duality.  A cylinder is neither a circle nor a rectangle, but it can have the properties of either (but not both) at any one time, while visiting Flatland.  It can do that because it is actually something far outside the understanding of any Flatlander.

An electron is neither a particle nor a wave, but it can take the properties of either (but not both) at any time, while manifested in our universe.  It can do that because it is actually something far outside the understanding of any human.  But, as A. Square (the main character in Flatland) eventually attains an understanding of the third dimension, maybe we’ll someday have a better idea what electrons and photons are.  In the meantime, the unknown feels better to me than a paradox.