It struck me that my writings (my children) will be largely misunderstood if they are read through the filter, lens, prism, etc. of essentialism. The style of my thinking permeates through with an anti-essentialist vibe. Do I believe in a unitary soul? No. Do I believe reality is monistic? No. Ideas such as qualitative multiplicity, schizophrenia, shamanism, rhizomes, many-worlds, anti-irony, anti-hyper realism, etc. find a natural home in my writings.

It is a fluid discourse, smooth before a beat skips, tonal asymmetries abound, Artaud’s Theater of Cruelty flashes. It’s not in praise of irrationalism but the necessity of breaking free from the ever-pervasive hyper-realism of modernity. Breaking free? My sunshiny optimism always slips out even in the worst moments of narrative or character disintegration. If not breaking free from the hyper-real, at least calling attention to it. The experience (even that connotes a unitary set theory) isn’t meant to be satisfying, or pleasant. More like a haunted house tour on a broken, rickety old mine cart.

Indeed, so much has my mind and thought rejected the essentialism of Platonic forms in their myriad of zombie manifestations (“straight because that’s the way nature intended” “male because gender is found within ones genitalia”) that I am often taken aback by those who proudly endorse such philosophical / pseudo-scientific dribble without shame. A lot of lives, dreams, hopes, and loves have been burned at the essentialist stake. I wish that was hyperbole, but essentialism, especially in its cruelest forms (e.g. religious zealotry and political fanaticism) has been responsible for bathing the earth in blood many times over.

Much of what is derided as cancel culture is simply anti-bullying, desperate people trying to stand up against the bromides of the strong against the weak, resist the brutal, amoral system which encourages meanness as both the right of the oppressor and a “proven” way to “toughen up” the weak by making them fit for cannon fodder. Even today, such abhorrent views are expressed as natural, common-sense, e.g., defending starvation and, by extension, starvation wages as a form of self-motivation, a way to squeeze the last drops out of the bloodless turnips that are the “lazy and coddled”.

If bullying kills, then stopping it saves lives. Not cancel culture. Saving lives.

I can’t stand it!

You mean this thing?

No, I mean that thing!

I don’t know where this idea began that there is a particular form of courage that consists of never censoring one’s ideas, thoughts, words, emotions, etc. in consideration of one’s audience. It seems to me that context IS everything. In fact it’s hard to imagine how to meaningfully express oneself outside of context. (There’s a finer philosophical point to be made about language, but for the purposes of this context, it’s not worth discussing in great detail.). No matter the level of abstraction, meaning forces a dialogue, a discourse, which requires further adjustment, correction, clarification, nuance, etc.

The truth is we don’t have the time to understand one another. Twitter makes it seem as if discussions take place outside of context. And indeed, the joy we feel upon learning of a new Twitter spat is trying to uncover the reasons that led to the dispute.

But of course I’m not drawing a hard line between self-editing and self-censorship, because I’m not really sure where or what that line is. For example, I would describe myself politically as progressive. But if I found myself among a group that is overwhelmingly conservative, I would refrain and decline from getting into political discussions because I generally don’t like to waste my time. Meaning is also survival, pleasure-seeking, avoidance of pain.

It’s painful to be misunderstood. Even more painful to be ignored. And more painful still to work to be better understood.

So the dream of liberation from self-censorship is also the dream of the carefree life. Where everything comes at no cost. And a lot of things in life come at little to no cost. So we can make a habit of never censoring ourselves. But it could be a bad habit, a lazy habit, the habit which treats discipline and effort as shackles.

I am struck by the parallel between the current debate over the origin of SARS-CoV-2 and the long-settled argument between Natural Selection vs. Design (hint: Natural Selection won). The arguments in favor of a lab leak vs. natural zoonotic origin seem to rely on the much discredited notion of “finely tuned” variants. For example, of the 35 combinations of arginine amino acid codes, SARS-CoV-2 contains the “rarest and least likely to be found” in nature. It is also the “most common” technique used in gain-of-function experiments by virologists.

Assessing the validity of these claims is not simply a function of the state of genomics and virology in general. The unstated assumption upon which the argument rests is a rather curious modern version of “look how complex and finely adapted the eye is in nature.” Nowhere is the powerful machinery of Natural Selection given its due. Curious, for dramatic variations in viruses, as we are repeatedly warned, emerge quite rapidly in timescales compared to, say, our own evolution. Even if a variant is rare, that is hardly an argument against Natural Selection. One could easily turn the argument around and conclude this variation proves its very fitness allowing the virus to make the jump to a new species. One might also say that its rarity is evidence of the novelty of zoonotic leaps.

But virologists surely know this. Why then would some give credence to arguments in favor of design over natural selection? Perhaps virologists have become quite enamored with their ability to augment and manipulate genetic material. God, whether in lab or in Heaven, begets a confidence in our ability to control nature.

I am skeptical of the lab leak theory as much of the speculation is based on wish fulfillment. Anecdotally, it seems to me that many proponents are not satisfied with the “accidental” part, and believe the virus was intentionally released. This raises the desired hope that “someone needs to be blamed and we found the culprit” rather than agonizing over the fact that we, the by-products of Natural Selection, are at the mercy of chance and happenstance.

I don’t recall the Internet being such an unwieldy, unsatisfying experience as it is today. One would expect the promise of technology to disappoint from a technical point of view. It was too complex to solve, we need to work on simpler steps before we build something that big. That would be acceptable. It’s a big plane, it won’t be easy to get off the ground, etc.

But what do we do when the disappointment comes from the experience itself. I don’t fart around on the Internet anymore in search of the new or novel like I once did. Not for technical reasons but for the simple fact that it is too damn boring. The way we communicate to each other is insipid. Did you see Kimmel crush Cruz? No, why would I? Will Cruz slink away after said crushing? Does Kimmel get to move in Cruz’s house as an award for beating him with a more talented group of writers? Why would I care about something where nothing happens and nothing of consequence is the result? Is that not the definition of nothing? And is not the experience of nothing, less than nothing?

There are stories of consequence. But these are presented as intractable forms of negative partisanship. There’s a fatalism that exists on both the left and right. The true conspiracy is in support of the status quo. You’re supposed to be turned off. You’re supposed to not care.

Virginia Woolf believed her novel was one of her finest ever. As it turns out, it was also one of ours.

Does consciousness work like that? I suppose many view the random disparate thoughts as the true unstable ground upon which human interaction must be built, upon which we struggle in vain to barely discern and piece together what our neighbors, our friends, family, our enemies truly believe at any one moment in time in a hopeless attempt to patch together a stable, coherent landscape. Worse, for what do we ourselves truly believe from moment to moment? Inconsistent, contradictory feelings pull us first in that direction and then in another. Indeed, a great deal of human communication lies just below this surface of tumult. The struggle then is to find the light, a permanent ground upon which to mark our path and return home safely.

I take a reserved position towards my thoughts, neither investing them with any great symbolic meaning, nor bothered by the rambling, tumbling nature they sometimes possess. The struggle is not that we are cut off from one another, like atoms inside a molecule. The struggle is that we cannot be cut off, the impossibility of a thought that is not mitigated through human connectivity. Language asserts itself, superposes itself on thought. The true struggle is thought’s resistance to the rigid structure of language.

In light of this, there is always a good chance of having an evil thought because human existence is full of evil. A garbage thought for a garbage world. The struggle is to break free from the confines of malice, depression, self-doubt, pity, pathos – enough. Enlightenment? Yes, more of that please. But didn’t the Enlightenment program fail? Fail? It has barely begun.

Is it arrogant to write a blog no one wishes to read? No, it is arrogant to write as if one’s voice does not matter, that is to say, never to write at all. The true arrogance of writing is to think one’s craft unworthy of the full light of day.

I woke up this morning with a gem of an idea. It seemed I only needed to take up my pen (metaphorically, I type on my IPAD) and the gem would turn into a new piece of writing. But I am at the age now where any delay in conjuring up from memory that dreamlike apparition (coffee, dog licks, or a whizz) dooms the thought to extinction. I don’t even have a trail or a lead. I lost it and the only way I can find it again is to recreate the conditions of waking up out of a dream. I may get lucky and find it. Once or twice I have. I can soothe myself and imagine it couldn’t have been that good since I cannot recall. But there’s a disquietude to the thought, as if I imagine a hundred books lie just below the surface, ones I will never have the good fortune to read.

Writing can get in the way of thinking. Especially when you feel compelled to write as a manner of good hygiene…brush your teeth, get 7-8 hours of sleep, do some journaling, etc. Good habits, yes, because entropy is a constant threat, the desire to coast along, rest on laurels, consume the free energy of modern life. Enjoy the journey, yes, but the journey is not always enjoyable. It can lead to new, interesting experiences, but can often be dull, repetitive, or require a level of patience and practice just to keep a certain level of flexibility and dexterity. Enjoy the journey, while you can, but it is better to embrace the work. It’s not in my nature to commit to one thing forever, but when I do commit, I put in the work. Commit to the work, and the journey sort of takes care of itself. In a weird sense, the work creates the boundaries in which the journey unfolds. And then, happenstance will appear to add an extra level of attachment or endearment. Inspiration, yes, above all, look for that. It is a great help to retrace my steps, look back and reread my writing. Like looking through a window and seeing someone familiar, but not so well known that I take for granted.