My mullein plants have been stricken with caterpillars. Dull-looking white caterpillars, embedded in a mass of dirty fuzz covering most of the plant.
Normally, I would be able to look this up online. But unfortunately, there’s this thing called the mullein moth, whose caterpillars infest mullein. They’re handsome little things, nothing like what’s in my garden. But because they are caterpillars and are found on mullein, do you think I can find any mention of any other caterpillars that might be on a mullein plant?
Hah!
It’s not that bad information drives out good. It’s that relevant information keeps out additional information. As long as there are things called mullein moths out there, why would less relevant information about other kinds of caterpillars show up in a search?
I was thinking about this as I strolled down the hall at school, mildly indignant about an office that had changed a minor policy. I had learnt their policy 25 years ago, when I was first hired. How dare they expect me to remember a new version of it? That slot in my brain was filled, by perfectly relevant information. I knew that policy! Why on earth would I replace something I knew perfectly well with a new version? It’s bad enough, I thought, that Microsoft makes me replace a perfectly good word processor or OS every three years; is my workplace going to expect me to do the same with minor policies?
Well, of course, they are. And they do. And we all, I think, hate it. So when we get a chance to get back at the changing world by refusing to take its facts into account, there’s a feeling of triumph. But it’s unbecoming in a scientist, and I ought to overcome it. Perhaps I will do better, if I remember these bits of knowledge I’m reluctant to change as mullein moths. Pretty, apparently relevant, but really just a darned nuisance.
