On a Saturday in June, I drift through the Royal Observatory in Greenwich. I was last here as a boy — no more than 10. It’s not as big as I remember. Few things are.
A lot’s happened at the Observatory over the centuries. Generations of astronomers mapped the stars. Scientists evaluated John Harrison’s H4, the timepiece that revolutionized maritime navigation. (As I browse the exhibit, I wince at the thought of transatlantic trade in the age of dead reckoning.) And the Prime Meridian as we now know it came into being. Historically significant places are spiritual for me, usually. Maybe physical proximity wears thin the veil of time; maybe I just lost my mind in a history class years ago.
But today, for some reason, I can’t find that old reverence. Is it the flukiness of this place? Despite the Observatory’s cultural weight, there’s nothing particularly remarkable about its architecture or location.1 The scientists who worked here could have mounted their telescopes on any secluded hill outside of London. Alternatively, delegates at the 1884 International Meridian Conference could have picked any of the dozens of prime meridians in use at the time for their new global standard. Greenwich won out mainly due to the outsize influence of the Royal Navy.2
No, that’s not it. Greenwich Mean Time is arbitrary, but so are many social constructs. Today, I realize, the detachment I feel’s on my end.
I exit the Observatory; the sun seems to stick to me here. Ducking under a chestnut tree, my thoughts go to time. Specifically, how I’ve spent my own.
My twenties have been wilderness years. I’ve lived in five countries, documented war crimes, monitored a democratic election, conducted global development research, and worked in international advocacy and tech policy. I’ve also had the more dubious privilege of getting detained at border crossings, attending a cult meeting, getting polygraphed, being robbed of $800, recovering the aforementioned $800, coming within spitting distance of a grizzly bear, getting prank-called by Mandy Patinkin, hunkering down in bomb shelters, going to prison (to represent a client), and getting trapped in a four-hour megachurch service. I am a part of all that I have met.
But what of it? Lately, I’ve been feeling… scattered. Like loose change on a hardwood floor. The swashbuckling may be good education, but it’s not the dedication of a lifetime.
I need a framework, I decide. Something to grasp at. In the shade of that chestnut tree, I take down three questions that move me:
What might the end of history actually look like (if there is one)?
What will emerging technology do to social structures (and vice versa)?
What should we do in the meantime?
I pause for a beat. Maybe I should puzzle through those questions with an audience.
I’ve always trod lightly online, whether due to the risk aversion drilled by a family of lawyers, or the innate shame known to all with Irish blood. In the final analysis, though, I see little honor in passive consumption with nothing to show for it. And as a better author once said, I write to find out what I think. If others might get something out of the exercise, so much the better.
Okay. Let’s go.
I hope to post every week or two. Technology, global development, history, social institutions, governance structures, politics, futurism, personal reflections, and pretentious quotes from dead poets are all on the agenda. When I do publish, I’m eager to hear from you — writing can be so solitary otherwise.
As for the name:
“For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; ...
There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe,
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapped in universal law.”
— Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Locksley Hall”
Talk soon.
The bright red ball perched atop the main building is fun, though. Ships on the Thames once used the ball to mark time; it still drops at 1pm every day. Also, when the Observatory was renovated in the 1950s, maintenance workers took the ball down and kicked it around the park. Based on the pockmarks still seen on the ball’s exterior, I can only imagine that it was a rollicking game.
Not everyone was on board, however. The French held to “Paris Mean Time” — 9 minutes and 21 seconds ahead — for decades thereafter.