Wilson makes a joke!

Late yesterday evening, as I tucked Wilson up in the tumble dryer for the night, he asked me, 'New Dad – I am real, aren't I?' 

'Of course you are! I replied, in my most reassuring, confident and Dad-like tone of voice. 

'And you're real too, aren't you?' he then asked.

I thought for a moment, then told him, 'Yes. I think so. I think I'm real.'

Believing he was asleep, I crept out of the laundry room, but he called after me: 'You think, so, therefore you are! I made a philosophy joke! Ha ha!'

Great Uncle Kenneth's Theory

Yesterday afternoon over tea Wilson explained his Great Uncle Kenneth's Theory of Reality (or The Kenneth Vermilingua Unified Theory of Reality, as his Great Uncle Kenneth always referred to it). (I wonder, is Kenneth even a Costa Rican name? W assures me that it is the 29th most popular boy's name in Costa Rica, and he knows about these things!)

According to this theory, everything is made of tiny sub-microscopic, indivisible hard particles manufactured by the ants. These fundamental particles his Great Uncle called 'Antoms.' There are also some sub-antomic particles, he conjectured, but these were mostly detached bits of ants' legs etc which fall off during the antom manufacturing process. 

None of this makes any sense to me whatsoever but honestly, is Wilson's Uncle Ken's theory any less likely that that everything comes into existence only when you look at it?

As John Lennon said, 'The more real you get, the more unreal the world gets.' If that's not a Theory of Reality I don't know what is. But then, I've never actually seen John Lennon, so perhaps he never existed…

More paradoxes, and a surprise answer

Wilson insisted on sleeping in my bed last night, to be sure I wouldn't wink out of existence while he wasn't looking. As soon as he awoke this morning, he started to explain about Descartes' theory that we are dreaming Reality and it's really all in our heads, and Willard Van Orman Quine's theory that Everything is Made of All Our Minds. 

Made of our Minds? What??

Finally, he outlined Nick Bostrom's theory that Reality is just a computer simulation, and we are all just characters in some vast video game. I'm guessing it's Lemmings.

This makes little or no sense to me, and all it seems to achieve is worrying Wilson that he's not real. I'd so hoped we'd put all that behind us after the 'Moon' incident.

I asked W why he was so interested in all this paradoxical metaphysics, and his reply surprised me: 'I was expecting to be able to read about my Great Uncle Kenneth's Theory of Reality, but New Scientist didn't even mention it!'

More problems with Reality...

Today, Wilson resumed our discussion of Reality:

'Leonard Susskind and Gerard t' Hooft think that everything is a holographic projection from the Event Horizon of a Black Hole, while the Copenhagen Interpretation says that things are only real while you're looking at them!' he explained. 'That means that as soon as you leave the room, New Dad, you cease to exist because I can't see you. And I cease to exist, because you can't see me.'

'Really?' I asked, 'Is that really what it means?'

'Absolutely' W confirmed. 'So when you leave the room, will you keep talking to me so I know you still exist? I'm keeping Antony with me all the time too, so he doesn't stop existing!'

I had to agree to keep talking or singing or making some kind of noise whenever I was out of Wilson's sight, to reassure him that I still existed.

This is exactly why I try to keep W away from articles on philosophy!

The Reality problem...

Last night, fearing another Existential Crisis might be on the way, I asked Wilson how he is getting on with the What Is Reality? New Scientist special edition. He replied that it was much more complicated than he'd expected. 

Over a mug of hot chocolate he explained that there were many contradictory theories: for example the Standard Model, which is all about Quarks and Leptons, Charm and Strangeness and Muon Nutrinos, but which explains… only about… four percent of the... universe… 

While he was speaking, I noticed his chin sink slowly down onto his chest, his eyes close and a gentle snore emerge. 

I guess Reality is a complex and tiring concept, and it's just worn him out for today. I took the mug from his paw and carried him off to the tumble dryer, where I put him to bed.

Wilson is on a roll!

Wilson is on a roll! He burst into my room before I was awake, sat on the bed and sang:

Well, I woke up this morning
   Thinkin' 'bout New Dad
He's been my father longer
   Than any other ever had
De-dum de-dum de-dum
   De-dum de-dum not too bad.
   Oh yeah!

He said this needed a little bit of fine-tuning, but he wanted to let me hear it as a work-in-progress.

Antony's Bllues:

Even after thinking about it all night, Wilson had still been unable to write a 12-bar blues for Antony, so he woke up this morning, feeling kind of sad. He hugged Antony for a little while, then his face suddenly lit up. Grabbing Antony and his guitar, he ran into the living room, where after a couple of false starts he began to sing:

Well, I woke up this morning
   Feeling kind of sad;
Gave Antony a hug
   Then things weren't quite as bad;
He's the best toy anteater
  That I have ever had.
  Oh yeah!

When he finished singing, little Antony positively glowed with pleasure; I think his cheeks even turned a tiny bit pink. 

We probably shouldn't mention any of this to sTony. 

Or to the Easter Island heads in the garden.