Links of the Quarter: December 2016

Ironic search result from the website. As they say “The paradox is that the ‘me’ cannot help but search, but what it’s looking for, a return to oneness, can never be found by the separate self. It will only be seen when ‘me’ falls away, but it will be seen by no one.”

Paul Kingsnorth has described 2016 as The Year of the Serpent. He writes:

History to [New Yorker editor David Remnick] is the continuing, inevitable path towards goals which he and his fellow ‘progressives’ consider to be just: the dissolution of the nation state, global human equality, a cosmopolitan world civilisation, fair and free trade, the spread of personal liberty and secular democracy to all corners of the globe. These goals are so obviously desirable that it is inconceivable that we should ever stop progressing towards them. Their triumph is tied in to the very fabric of time itself. The election of Donald Trump, who opposes at least some of them, thus represents a kind of anti-history. Not the real thing; an aberration which can’t last. Like a dammed river bursting its banks, progress will inevitably resume its natural course, sooner or later.

This is the humanist worldview, the one that most progressives still hew to. The “aberrant” election of Trump has not shattered their faith; just made them more determined to fight for the course correction needed to achieve their “obviously desirable” goals. It is doubtful that they will abandon this faith for the ‘hopeless’ one of collapsniks — the belief that even if these goals are desirable they will never be achieved, and it would be more useful to refocus on preparing for collapse than in vainly struggling to radically and quickly reform civilization’s systems and avert it. But it is as futile to debate this with humanists as to debate social and political morality with conservatives; there is no useful common ground.

And of course ‘collapsism’ — the moving past the second denial to accept the inevitability of civilization’s near-term collapse as part of the sixth great extinction — is also a kind of faith. We collapsniks cannot prove conclusively this inevitability; it’s something we have come to accept because it most makes sense in the context of our admittedly utterly incomplete and feeble knowledge of history, of human nature, and of how complex systems seem to work. This seems, to us, to make more sense intellectually and intuitively than other worldviews, even though we would rather believe we were wrong and that David Remnick, Charles Eisenstein and their fellow humanists were right.

My recent journey has been to try to see beyond this second denial to consider a third and fourth that seem, in some ways, to mirror the first two and bring us full circle to our current predicament. I’ve described them as follows:

  1. That with the useful evolution of our large brains came the unexpected emergence of ‘self’-consciousness — the illusion of separateness from all-there-is, and the resultant suffering, alienation and destructiveness that comes with this affliction. And there is no ‘path’ to liberation from, or ‘cure’ for, this affliction.
  2. That as the ‘self’ is an illusion, a construct, neither humans nor other creatures have free will, choice, control, agency, volition or responsibility for what we do. Nothing is inevitable, predictable or foreordained, but under the specific circumstances and situation in which each of us finds ourselves in each moment, we cannot do other than what we do.

Burkhard Bilger, writing about David Eagleman’s research on the nature of reality, quotes him as saying: “[What the self perceives as] reality is a tape-delayed broadcast, carefully [edited, synched and] censored before it reaches us.” Our understanding of what was, is a model pieced together by the brain, not something experienced directly. ‘We’ do not live in the present at all. Donald Hoffman asserts that reality is nothing like what we think it is. The simplified, artificial model of reality that the brain constructs is attuned to fitness (survival), not to truth.  Seeing reality isn’t beneficial to our survival, he says. “Evolution has shaped us with perceptions that allow us to survive. But part of that involves hiding from us the stuff we don’t need to know. And that’s pretty much all of reality, whatever reality might be.” [Thanks to Kevin Barron for the link.]

Fellow collapsnik Brutus thinks it’s “cruel and pointless” to talk someone out of their faith in the reality of the self and free will. He criticizes Adam Bear who says:

A more speculative possibility is that our minds are designed to distort our perception of choice and that this distortion is an important feature (not simply a bug) of our cognitive machinery. For example, if the experience of choice is a kind of causal inference … then swapping the order of choice and action in conscious awareness may aid in the understanding that we are physical beings who can produce effects out in the world. More broadly, this illusion may be central to developing a belief in free will.”

Cruel and pointless, perhaps, but it’s in our nature to want to know the truth. Perhaps it’s just as cruel to convince people that collapse is occurring, if, as many now believe, there’s nothing we can do to avert it.

So, looking past all four denials: The sixth great extinction is at hand (1), and there’s nothing we can do about it (2). And this extinction is largely the result of the emergence of the illusion of the separate self — something we have always thought of as an evolutionary advance, but is actually an utterly useless and unnecessary affliction (3); worse, it underlies all suffering and most human destruction, and has no ‘treatment’ or cure (4).

Pretty dismal worldview, huh? Strangely, I find embracing it quite liberating. My job, now, is to chronicle civilization’s collapse, and to make sense of it any way I can. That may change, but I’m no longer searching for something that makes more sense.


cartoon by Emily Flake in the New Yorker

Extinction Is the End Game: Xray Mike recaps the latest signs of the accelerating decline of civilization culture. And Ilargi riffs on the same subject. Excerpts from Ilargi:

Without the natural world that we were born into, or rather that our species, our ancestors, were born into, we have zero chance of survival. Because it is the natural world that has allowed for, and created, the conditions that made it possible for mankind to emerge and develop in the first place. And we are nowhere near making an earth 2.0; the notion itself is preposterous. A few thousand years of man ‘understanding’ his world is no match for billions of years of evolution.

Letting Go: Deb Ozarko describes what it means to let go of the belief that the collapse of our civilization can be averted or mitigated. Thanks to Wendy Bandurski-Miller for the link.

60ºC Variations in Arctic Temperatures Unleash Polar Vortex: While temperatures in the Canadian Arctic and North Pole have been up a stunning 36ºC warmer than normal, temperatures in nearby Greenland and Siberia have been 30ºC colder than normal. These are unprecedented anomalies, wreaking havoc on permafrost and local climate throughout the northern hemisphere. The impact of these “insane” and “terrifying” (in the words of climate scientists) extreme and enduring temperature shifts — glacial melt, severe storms, permanent disruption of the jet stream and ocean currents — cannot be predicted.

The End of Affordable Energy: Gail Tverberg explains how the demand for cheap-energy-fuelled growth will inevitably lead to economic collapse, as the affordable price for oil drops below the cost of its production. And as Ilargi explains, “What the world needs to do, but we very much doubt it will voluntarily, is not to look for other forms of energy to replace oil and gas, but to look for ways to use much less energy (90% or so) while still maintaining societies that function as best they can.”

Dave Talks About Collapse and Non-Duality: My latest interview with Carolyn Baker (audio-only version here).

60% of Global Wildlife Gone: The 2016 Living Planet report says that total populations of wild species have declined 60% from 1970s levels. The findings are based on long-term monitoring of some 3,700 vertebrate species spread across more than 14,000 distinct populations.


cartoon by Mick Stevens in the New Yorker

How to Live More Sustainably: My friend and fellow Bowen Islander Jae Mather explains the urgency of living more sustainably, hopeless as our situation may be.

Joe Bageant Explains Rednecks: Dear Joe, who died a few years ago, summarizes his explanation in Deer Hunting With Jesus why poor whites understandably and overwhelmingly vote Republican against their own best interests. Thanks to Bobby Arnold, another friend of Joe’s, for the link.

13 Sources of Free Images: No more need to dig through Google and Flickr for creative commons photos you can use; these images are completely free. Take that Getty!

The Best Indoor Plants For Air Quality: Ferns, palms and ornamental figs (but be careful if you have pets that nibble them). Thanks to Joe Mather for the link.


Dave Turns Down the Heat: My latest interview in the Bowen Island Undercurrent explains how (methods checked above; I’ve just put plastic film on my largest heat-loss skylight as well) I’ve reduced my energy consumption by 30% this year.


cartoon by Tom Chitty in the New Yorker

Nothing Much to Say About Trump: Susan Sarandon explains why many progressives refused to support Hillary Clinton. Trump’s election was, like the Brexit vote, an angry, fed-up, frightened protest against a sense of powerlessness (check out the link to the brilliant Trump TV ad in this article from Paul, and this amazingly perceptive FoxNews analysis) in our global, increasingly unequal economy [thanks to Tom Atlee for these two links]. And like Brexit, it was an anxious revolt by rural/suburban residents against the apparent power of those in the ‘scary’ cities [thanks to Tree for this link]. Like much of the political discourse we are seeing globally, and will see more in the year to come, this protest is totally incoherent and disorganized, but we ignore it at our peril. While some short term damage by the latest clown-elect is probable, the election of the sociopathic Trump, like the election of the equally damaged Cheney (running the country in the guise of Bush) in 2000, is unlikely to change anything for long [thanks to George Por and Deanna Pumplin for these links]. He might even opt to try improving the US’s crumbling infrastructure. As Richard Heinberg and Rob Hopkins have both written: Before Trump, build resilient local community; after Trump, build resilient local community.

Environmental Journalism Under Siege: The journalists who covered the coordinated protests against the Alberta Tar Sands face prison time of up to 30 years for doing so. And in North Dakota, award-winning journalist Amy Goodman faces similar charges.

Is Your Anxiety Profitable?: Interesting article claims that not only do product-pushers exploit your sense of anxiety, you would be much less anxious if they weren’t doing so. The argument is that life hasn’t become any more stressful in the last century. So the reason there is so much more stress-related illness is that it’s profitable.

The Crimes of Empires: Arundhati Roy and Daniel Ellsberg meet Edward Snowden. Thanks to Jon Husband for the link.

Understanding the Alt-Right Movement: A fascinating and thorough if somewhat slanted explanation of a worldview honed from pain, frustration and fear. Thanks to KMO for the link.

Chronic Pain Patients “Collateral Damage” in War on Opioids: While bad street drugs laced with synthetic fentanyl are causing hundreds of overdose deaths, long-term chronic pain patients are being punished, deprived of vital medications, and mistreated by health care workers as “drug seekers” in the medical and political establishment’s zeal to try to reduce the “epidemic” of toxic street drugs. As always in dealing with addiction, they are taking exactly the wrong approach. Thanks for Daphne Bramham for telling the inconvenient truth.

Canadian Greens and NDP Continue to Self-Destruct: In their thirst for political power, Canada’s Green Party leaders continue to purge progressives who advocate radical positions on environmental, political and social issues, threatening to make them just another do-nothing centrist party afraid to rock the corporatist boat. Likewise, the BC NDP is waffling on opposing pipelines, dam sites and mining activities, afraid of alienating its labour base. As for the Trudeau Liberals, most of us knew before the election that the charismatic leader was just a Canadian Obama, a Harper-lite, with no interest at all in environmental protection except where he can get short-term political gain from token environmental posturing. There is now no true pro-environment party in Canada.


cartoon by Will McPhail from the New Yorker

A $15 Toy That Will Make You See the World Differently: It’s not really a toy, but this LED-lighted 120x power microscope will astonish you with what it shows you of the world right under your nose. I’m buying one for each of the ‘kids’ in my life.

How Wolves Change Rivers: A short 5-minute video explains how complex systems involve millions of variables connected in unfathomable ways: How the reintroduction of a few wolves enriched and changed an entire ecosystem in just a few years.

Tim Minchin is Not Perfect: A stunning song poignantly explains who we are and what we are not. If you like your Tim edgier, try If I Didn’t Have You.

How Smart Is an Octopus?: Probably as smart as many mammals, though no one really understands how. I’m reading Sy Montgomery’s Soul of an Octopus at the moment, so I might write more about this. Thanks to Nancy White for the link.

Earth Weather, Beautified: A stunning near-real-time visualization of global weather conditions (configurable by clicking bottom left). Thanks to Paula Love for the link.

Is Time Real?: David Eagleman suggests that the brain constructs what we perceive as ‘time’ to make sense of discontinuity, in a similar way to how it constructs what we perceive as ‘colour’ to make sense of electromagnetic radiation — Neither is ‘real’. See the quote below by Mark Helprin for another way of seeing this.

Jim Page and the Power of Music: The definitive protest singer Jim Page (who’s promising some new songs soon on Standing Rock) explains why he does what he does.


barred owl sketch by the amazing Rebecca Clark

From WH Auden (thanks to Bill Watson for the link): The Labyrinth:

Anthropos apteros for days walked whistling round and round the Maze,
Relying happily upon his temperament for getting on.
The hundredth time he sighted, though, a bush he left an hour ago,
He halted where four alleys crossed, and recognized that he was lost.

“Where am I? Metaphysics says no question can be asked unless
It has an answer, so I can assume this maze has got a plan.
If theologians are correct, a Plan implies an Architect:
A God-built maze would be, I’m sure, the Universe in miniature.

Are data from the world of Sense, in that case, valid evidence?
What in the universe I know can give directions how to go?
All Mathematics would suggest a steady straight line as the best,
But left and right alternately is consonant with History.

Aesthetics, though, believes all Art intends to gratify the Heart:
Rejecting disciplines like these, must I, then, go which way I please?
Such reasoning is only true if we accept the classic view,
Which we have no right to assert, according to the Introvert.

His absolute pre-supposition is–Man creates his own condition:
This maze was not divinely built, but is secreted by my guilt.
The centre that I cannot find is known to my Unconscious Mind;
I have no reason to despair because I am already there.

My problem is how not to will; they move most quickly who stand still;
I’m only lost until I see I’m lost because I want to be.
If this should fail, perhaps I should, as certain educators would,
Content myself with the conclusion; in theory there is no solution.

All statements about what I feel, like I-am-lost, are quite unreal:
My knowledge ends where it began; a hedge is taller than a man.”

Anthropos apteros, perplexed to know which turning to take next,
Looked up and wished he were the bird, to whom such doubts must seem absurd.

By Mark Helprin, from Winter’s Tale [thanks to Eleftheria for the link]:

Nothing is random, nor will anything ever be, whether a long string of perfectly blue days that begin and end in golden dimness, the most seemingly chaotic political acts, the rise of a great city, the crystalline structure of a gem that has never seen the light, the distributions of fortune, what time the milkman gets up, the position of the electron, or the occurrence of one astonishing frigid winter after another. Even electrons, supposedly the paragons of unpredictability, are tame and obsequious little creatures that rush around at the speed of light, going precisely where they are supposed to go. They make faint whistling sounds that when apprehended in varying combinations are as pleasant as the wind flying through a forest, and they do exactly as they are told. Of this, one is certain.

And yet, there is a wonderful anarchy, in that the milkman chooses when to arise, the rat picks the tunnel into which he will dive when the subway comes rushing down the track from Borough Hall, and the snowflake will fall as it will. How can this be? If nothing is random, and everything is predetermined, how can there be free will? The answer to that is simple. Nothing is predetermined, it is determined, or was determined, or will be determined. No matter, it all happened at once, in less than an instant, and time was invented because we cannot comprehend in one glance the enormous and detailed canvas that we have been given – so we track it, in linear fashion piece by piece. Time however can be easily overcome; not by chasing the light, but by standing back far enough to see it all at once. The universe is still and complete. Everything that ever was is; everything that ever will be is – and so on, in all possible combinations. Though in perceiving it we image that it is in motion, and unfinished, it is quite finished and quite astonishingly beautiful. In the end, or rather, as things really are, any event, no matter how small, is intimately and sensibly tied to all others. All rivers run full to the sea; those who are apart are brought together; the lost ones are redeemed; the dead come back to life; the perfectly blue days that have begun and ended in golden dimness continue, immobile and accessible; and, when all is perceived in such a way as to obviate time, justice becomes apparent not as something that will be, but something that is.

Posted in Preparing for Civilization's End | 5 Comments

Imagining the Unimaginable

image by Przemyslaw Puchalski at; licence: Creative Commons CC BY-NC-ND 4.0

A few days ago I received a message from Transition Network co-founder Rob Hopkins saying he’d enjoyed my 2013 post about imagination. We’ve compared notes since then, and for the last few days I’ve been thinking more about the topic.

Back when I first started blogging, I wrote, intending it ironically:

If we can’t imagine, we can do anything.

What I meant by this is that if we’re unable to imagine the potential consequences of our actions, we can commit the most terrible atrocities. I think psychopaths (and many politicians and other ‘leaders’ qualify here) find a way to shield themselves from imagining. They are driven by their disease to do ghastly things, and they don’t dare imagine what their actions could lead to. In particular, they’ve inured themselves to their own suffering, and as they act out their grief and anger they must also inure themselves to the suffering of others. That’s their nature, the only way they’ve learned to live and cope.

What I have described as an increasingly global culture of homogeneity and immense imaginative poverty is fuelled mostly I think by the simple lack of practice imagining things out of nothing, in a world that essentially leaves nothing to the imagination. Now, the rules of computer games are enforced by the software to ensure you can’t invent your own variations and diversions. War and every type of violence is acted out explicitly and displayed graphically in ‘entertainment’ media down to minute detail in high-definition. Business processes (and the technologies that now enforce them) have become prescriptive and rigid. Everything is organized for children, right down to with whom, and when, they will play. Through lack of practice we have lost the capacity to make things up without a template, a model to copy, and instructions to follow.

Those of us blessed to live affluent lives are now so accustomed to our current way of living that we cannot imagine any other way to live. All over the world privileged people spend most of their waking hours in front of one kind of screen or another (sometimes more than one at a time), distracting themselves with the same homogeneous, derivative content, looking for meaning and direction on what to do next. When the screens go dark, they are at a loss for what to do. When the screens go dark for good, they will be lost forever.

I am blessed, or cursed, with a rich, often overactive imagination. Some of the things I am imagining in our future are clearly unimaginable to most people, and in particular to the young people who have been most deprived of the opportunity to practice imagining.

Here are a few of the things I can now imagine (warning: some of what follows is pretty grim; if you’re sensitive you might want to skip the rest of this post):

  1. I can imagine a world without jobs or employment. The concept of a ‘job’ is anachronistic, even feudal — that one person or entity will provide certain benefits (a salary, health benefits, sick leave etc) to other people in return for those people’s loyalty. Organizational hierarchies offer psychological appeal to both ‘leaders’ who enjoy giving orders to obedient subordinates and reaping disproportionate rewards for what they do for the organization, and ’employees’ who don’t want responsibility, have been brought up to feel dependent and helpless, and are quite content being told what to do and how to do it. But increasingly this co-dependence is no longer required for organizations to do what they do — they can automate, outsource, offshore and contract everything. This is where we are headed, and fast. But the work world has made no provision to transition currently-employed non-executives (most of the ‘labour force’) to this brave new world, and the education system (which only teaches the way things were in the past) is oblivious to it. How will your grandchildren fare? How much longer will we keep pretending that all the people who’ve given up trying to find work are not really unemployed?
  2. I can imagine a world with plenty of resources that no one can afford. With fracking and other reckless, environmentally ruinous extraction methods finding more and more marginal energy resources, many are now saying that ‘peak oil’ was a myth, and energy will always be abundant. But as anyone who’s lived through a depression or in a failed state can attest, it doesn’t matter if there’s an abundance of something if no one can afford it. During the Great Depression (as in most depressions and famines before it), food rotted in the fields while people starved, because no one had jobs and hence no one could pay the struggling farmer to harvest it, or to replant next year or protect their fragile crops from diseases and pests and fertilize their degraded soil with enough chemicals to grow anything. When power lines came down in storms, the power stayed off for weeks or longer because the power company couldn’t pay its workers to fix them. It doesn’t take much to imagine, in our now utterly-dependent (and hence hugely fragile) global economy, a world of apparent natural abundance (and abundance of capacity) which is paradoxically full of starvation, deprivation and scarcity of even the basic necessities of life. But few of us can imagine this.
  3. I can imagine living at peace in a collapsing world. As the flywheel of civilization comes apart, there will be, here and there, now and again, for quite a while, some horrors that we shudder to think of. This is why we cling to and are so addicted to this civilization culture, and why we the desire to preserve it, even if that means befouling other planets or freezing vestiges of it in cyberspace. We can’t, we don’t dare, imagine what collapse might bring. But I can. I can imagine suffering so horrible that many will choose to just go off and die, of thirst and starvation (not a bad way to go, despite the propaganda of religions to the contrary). I can imagine such desperation to escape the hopelessness that millions of people will consume addictive poisons that will give them a brief high even while it rots their flesh. I can imagine the expression of utter misery of millions of humans through self-mutilation to the point of permanent disability and suicide, like battery-caged hens. I can imagine humans dying on doorsteps, ignored by passers-by. I can imagine humans eating our own young. None of this is new to dying civilizations. And I can imagine living at peace through all of this, and living at peace with the knowledge that this is coming. We’re all doing our best. We’re all suffering from civilization disease. This is how civilizations end. After it’s fallen, life will go on, free from the horrors we have wrought on each other and on our world, with the best of intentions. The world left behind will, eventually, once again (abandoned nuclear power plant meltdowns notwithstanding) be as it was for a billion years before humans appeared — wondrous, magical, peaceful (even in the eating of creature by creature).
  4. I can imagine future human cultures that are insignificant to the global web of life as it then exists, and are also free of the undiagnosed endemic human disease of the self. Civilizations (and populations of all creatures that dominate their ecosystems to the detriment of other species) tend to follow a normal curve. We’re currently at the ‘hockey stick’ point of maximum growth of almost everything we are involved with, starting to decelerate before the terrifying plunge down the other side. There’s no reason to believe we’re exceptional. That would suggest that a few millennia in the future there will be mere pockets of humans scattered in the most then-hospitable (without technology) parts of an unimaginably altered planet. Human populations will be nearly stable, but they’ll likely be in the final stage of the long tail of decline, flat-lining towards species extinction. But these final humans may well live wonderful, joyful lives. If that’s so it will be because they’ve lost their ‘selves’ — the well-entrained belief in humans of nearly all current cultures that they are in control of their lives and are responsible for their actions. A human without a self is a wild creature, and most wild creatures, it would seem, live thrilling lives inseparable from their environments, unconcerned with time, death, or responsibility. Yet, freed from these concerns — freed from human culture — they are peaceful, compassionate, accepting, and attuned to the welfare of all life on Earth. They are, in a word, not. There is no ‘them’; there are no identities, egos, beliefs, or concepts — the stuff that only belongs to those with the sense of having separate, individual selves — afflicting them. As for all wild creatures, their behaviour is what has enabled and continues to enable the survival of their tribe. They are as dolphins — they are just oneness, beingness. Miraculous, perfect, needing and aspiring to nothing. All our self-ish mistakes forgotten. True nature remembered. Impossible to imagine anything so different, no? Not for me.
  5. I can imagine seeing the world as a bird sees it. All senses and intuition, living life full-on. Not seeing anything as separate, but instead living in the world as a fetus lives inside the womb, as part of it. Seeing colour, movement, everything as beauty, as love. Living a life of continuous wonder and astonishment. Accepting everything and longing for nothing. Behaving in ways that evolution has rewarded through survival, but not as an individual, but as an expression of all-there-is. Experiencing the astonishing joy of flight, and of freedom. The most horrible thing we can do to any creature, human or more-than-human, is to domesticate it; to persuade it that it is separate, limited, dependent, responsible, mortal, and vulnerable. To teach it suffering.
  6. I can imagine a world without humans. But I no longer imagine such a world as better or worse than one with humans. We don’t really matter, for all our self-centredness and destructiveness. I can imagine a world where the void of our disappearance is filled with creatures we cannot fully imagine — light creatures, creatures that live outside of time and move in and out of space, creatures that are immortal, creatures that show the world that all there is, is this. What is most amazing is that such a world is already here, full of creatures invisible to us and oblivious to our existence, with ways of being beyond our fathoming.

These are, of course, just possibilities, imaginings. They are not predictions, which are impossible, and pointless. We will see.

Posted in Preparing for Civilization's End | 2 Comments

Gabi’s Letter

surfDear, sweet Ren,

I hope you slept well last night  8-)

I thought about what you were saying last evening about the non-duality stuff, and about how hard it was to explain the whole thing about not really having free will, but seeming to, and after tossing it around in my head for a while I started drawing what the ‘self’ seemed to be and what ‘we’ are like without one. I decided to share my sketches with you; here’s the first one:


So here is the ‘natural’ apparent reality for a creature without a self — a wild creature, or a human child before the self emerges, or after it falls away. Say this creature faces a situation (0), like the apparent choice between eating two things. Its biology (1) may lead it (2) to instinctively prefer one of the things over the other. Its experiences or learnings from other creatures (3) may condition it (4) to prefer the other. There is some patterning in the brain (5) that may bring up some thoughts or feelings (6) about the two apparent ‘choices’, but ultimately the creature’s behaviour (7), apparently selecting one or the other (or both or neither), is a consequence of the creature’s nature (2 and 4) alone. The creature has no free will, no choice, no control over what happens. What happens is the eating of one thing rather than the other (or both, or neither).

Now here’s what apparently happens when a creature with a self is in the same situation:


This creature faces the same situation of apparently choosing between two foods (0). Like with the unafflicted creature, its biology (1) may lead it (2) to prefer one of the things over the other. Its experiences or learnings from other creatures (3) may condition it (4) to prefer the other.

But at some point, what emerged ‘in’ this creature, possibly as an unintended consequence of us evolving large brains with excess capacity, was the embodied self/mind, the mental construction of the idea that this creature is apart from all-there-is, and this self came up with the idea (reinforced by others similarly afflicted with selves) that it had control over this creature’s actions, beliefs and decisions. So now instead of thoughts and feelings just arising and passing in this large brain, the ‘self’ was appropriating these thoughts and feelings as belonging to it (and to the creature), and reacting to them. The self is just brain-patterning on a larger, reflexive scale (5).

So now the self attempts (fruitlessly) to intervene in what is happening (6). It reasons that it, not the creature’s innate and conditioned nature, is actually making the decision ‘for’ that creature. When the creature moves to eat one of the two foods (or both, or neither) (7), the apparent decision is not actually made by the self at all — it’s still made as a result of the creature’s nature (2 and 4).

But the self has to take ownership of the decision (it’s been taught by other self-afflicted creatures that it is and must be ‘responsible’), so it rationalizes (8) the decision that has been made in such a way it can continue to believe it ‘made’ the decision. It reimagines what actually happened to conform to its central, controlling view of itself. And then, it second-guesses that decision (9), and congratulates or blames itself for that decision. Depending on the nature of the apparent decision (eg whether to give money to a homeless person), this can give rise to all kinds of guilt, shame, anger and sadness (10). And uncertainty over what might happen to the creature that the self wasn’t up to perfectly anticipating, preventing, and controlling, gives rise to chronic anxiety and fear (8,9, and 10 are what Eckhart Tolle calls the egoic mind/pain body vicious cycle).

All for no reason. The self has no control over any of it. What the creature does has nothing to do with the abstract, oversimplified model of reality that the self has concocted and attempts relentlessly to use to guide ‘its’ decisions. While the large brain enhances the creature’s capacity to intuit cleverly and to learn from its own and others’ experiences (a wonderful survival tool, and hence an evolutionary success), the self/mind (a disease that came along with the large brain) has been an evolutionary disaster, producing unimaginable suffering and destruction. It will soon suffer the end-state of all terrible evolutionary mistakes — extinction.

So it’s a tragic story. What seemed like such evolutionary genius (the large brain), is, because of the parasite that came along with it (the self), destroying our whole planet’s rich ecosystem of life.

I can see how you find all this infuriating — you seemingly have this knowledge about the true nature of reality that almost no one else can fathom (it is a pretty powerful delusion, this self), so people think you’re crazy or preoccupied with something unimportant when you should be doing something ‘useful’ (like paying attention to them and their selves’ issues).

And on top of that you know that the affliction of the self is incurable (though occasionally it goes into spontaneous remission), and that no practice makes the falling away of the self any more likely to occur.

But I still love you (aside from the fact you use the word ‘inflicted’ when you should be using ‘afflicted’). You’re almost as smart as me, and you have the handicap of being male.

As for the ‘realization’ beyond the intellectual understanding that your self is not really in charge of anything, and doesn’t really exist, when I see you stop worrying, I’ll know you finally got it. 

Unrealistically yours in any case,


Posted in Creative Works | 3 Comments


detached-selfI‘ve been hosting my two wonderful friends from Peak Moment TV, Janaia and Robin, for the past few days, and mentioned to them the strange paradox of becoming increasingly ‘self’-aware, but only until/unless my ‘self’ falls away and this is no longer useful. And the equally strange paradox of realizing that the precondition for glimpses of ‘self’-liberation seems to be the limerence of the earliest stages of new love, but that in that limerence nothing else (including my ‘self’) matters — In love, I am simply not my ‘self’. Who or what, then, am I?

In her comment to my last post, Kari mentioned that she has found that in moments of exceptional creativity the self seems, likewise, to be largely absent (though when it returns and edits the creative work that somehow emerged without the self’s presence, that editing makes the ‘self-less’ work even better). Similarly, it has seemed to both of us that what one could call ‘intuition’ might be something that comes from outside the self, and hence might be the ‘whispering’ of ‘all-there-is’ in ‘our’ ears, giving us knowledge that the self cannot consciously countenance.

The essence of duality is that there is a ‘self’ separate from all-there-is. But in these four types of seemingly time-less moments (moments when the self falls away and all-there-is is ‘glimpsed’; moments of falling in love; moments of exceptional creativity; and moments of deep intuition) it is almost as if the impossibility of the self realizing that it is an illusion, is somehow breached. These are moments beyond thought, moments of what I used to call ‘presence’ before appreciating that that word is deceptive (because it suggests that it is a ‘conscious state’ that can somehow be worked towards or achieved).

It is tempting in these moments (and in the moments afterwards when the self tries to figure out what just happened) to invent a third person, an ‘observer’ or ‘witness’ (or even what some ‘spiritual teachers’, disturbingly, call the ‘real you’) that is separate both from the self and from all-there-is. It is as if the self realizes its ‘self’ for the illusion that it is, but only when it is seemingly outside itself. If the self is a recursive, or reflexive, imagined entity, perhaps it makes sense that it can only perceive itself non-reflexively, as a third person, an ‘other’.

With the understanding that I cannot control if, or when, my self falls away, I have found it interesting in the meantime to think about (a) how the self arose evolutionarily (possibly as an unfortunate and devastating consequence of the emergence of large brains), (b) what motivates it, and, (c) most recently this week, what ‘we’ are ‘apart’ from or ‘without’ it.

In the absence of a self, it would appear that behaviour of humans doesn’t noticeably change much, other than perhaps the gradual end of neuroses (chronic anxieties etc) and an end to such self-preoccupation. Without a self, humans (apparently) continue to do each moment the only thing they can do given the immediate and specific circumstances they face. They fall in love, or they don’t. They create, or they don’t. They have (and act on) intuitions, or they don’t. There is no longer a self presuming to be in control of, presuming to have some choice in, and presuming to be responsible for, these behaviours. Since that self and its control, choice and responsibility were illusory anyway, nothing appears to change. All-there-is continues to play the game of being, apparently, everything.

There is no self left who is relieved to no longer suffer under these illusions, so there is no ‘feeling better’ about the world or ‘oneself’, even though there is one fewer suffering self. The entire convoluted process of the particular self and all that ‘it’ is trying to do — trying to become more self-aware, trying to understand what motivates the self, or what falling in love or intuition or remarkable creativity imply about the self — just ends. Or more accurately (and even more paradoxically) it is seen (but not by any ‘one’) that the process never was, just as the self never was. All-that-happens keeps happening, including apparent actions involving an apparent human that other illusory selves keep calling by a particular name, but this is all an appearance. There is no person, there are no individual humans or selves. All-there-is is just all-that-happens apparently happening.

So what are ‘we’ without the ‘self’? Essentially, ‘we’ are not. What ‘we’ used to call ‘we’ vanishes (retroactively) when the self falls away.

So what is this apparent person that is left? Seemingly, just an appearance, like everything is an appearance. What is left is just what is happening ‘person-ing’. No subjects or objects, no nouns or pronouns, apply. If the self of a loved one falls away, nothing apparently changes (from the perspective of the remaining selves) other than a very subtle, probably imperceptible shift in the energy of that ‘person-ing’. The ‘person-ing’ continues to have preferences, express emotions (which were deeply embodied during the affliction of the self, and which, as time passes, are then modulated by its absence), and seemingly behave in ways that have been conditioned in the brain. Or more accurately, perhaps, the ‘person-ing’ continues to include ‘preference-ing’, emotional ‘express-ing’, and conditioned ‘behave-ing’. But there is no person.

Is there cause for the still-self-inflicted person left behind, who loves the now-self-less ‘person-ing’, to be fearful about this apparent change? Although this is a scary proposition for the self (after all, another self has seemingly died), in reality nothing apparently changes. The ‘person-ing’ will be indistinguishable from the self-inflicted person. It may have already happened to someone you love, and you didn’t notice. They may not have noticed, until there was no longer anyone to notice.

So what about the radical non-dualists who claim not to be teachers and not to have selves but who nevertheless hold meetings and prattle on about the illusion of self? If the disappearance of the self happens to ‘no one’ (once the self falls away, there is no one left to recognize the disappearance), how is it that these ‘messengers’ are able to deliver this message, and enthusiastically do so?

Apparently, ‘message-ing’ is a part of some ‘person-ing’. It is in the conditioned and embodied behaviour of some ‘messengers’ (more accurately, since there are no ‘messengers’ or other people, it is in the conditioned and embodied behaviour of some ‘message-ing’) to blather about the apparent possibility of this message being true. And there is a resonance, an intuition in other persons (or there is a ‘resonance-ing’ or ‘intuit-ing’ in some ‘person-ing’) that this message is true, or at least intriguingly possible and compelling.

What makes this message compelling to me (I think) is its simplicity, its internal consistency (it is perhaps the best candidate yet for a ‘grand theory of everything’ that is not hopelessly convoluted, incomplete and self-contradictory), and its resonance with the ‘glimpses’ that have happened when my self briefly vanished. I’m the ultimate skeptic, and this is the first explanation that doesn’t make the skeptic in me go “welllllllllll maybe… but…”. I’m not spiritual, but the scientist in me is totally comfortable with the basic unknowable-ness of everything, and with it the idea of infinity and infinite complexity. This message therefore just makes intuitive sense, to ‘me’. Even though I recognize it is practically useless.

Sorry for going on about it. I’m trying to focus on more creative work, but, just like my astonishing awareness about the nature of complexity (and hence about how the world really works and why we cannot prevent civilization’s collapse) a few years ago, this dawning about non-duality (and hence about who ‘we’ really are, or aren’t) is rather mind-blowing, and distracting. And they’re both hugely difficult, if not impossible, to explain to anyone else.

When you can kind of see something almost no one else can see at all, it starts to haunt you.

image via

Posted in Our Culture / Ourselves | 1 Comment

What Motivates the Self?

palmNon-dualists talk about the hopelessness of striving for liberation from one’s self, which some call ‘enlightenment’; it will happen, or it won’t, they say, and if it happens, it will be realized (by no one) that the self never was real. In the meantime, the best that a self-inflicted separate person can do is “make the prison of the self more comfortable”.

If ‘we’ can’t control (or lose) the self, perhaps ‘we’ can at least try to understand better what makes it tick. Why do some ‘selves’ seek attention or appreciation (or even fame), and others love and affection, and others fortune, or independence, or sensual pleasures? What makes the self happy? What motivates it?

I am currently vacationing on a peaceful, warm tropical island. I know warmth and beauty are things I seek. I also know I seek sensual pleasures. And I am heavily driven by aversion to fear and to conflict.

I’ve been conducting a few experiments to explore this question What motivates the self? Here’s what (I think) I’ve learned. (If you try any of them out yourself, I’d be curious to know what you discover.)

What does the self pay attention to?  Recently, whenever I’m inclined to take along a camera, I take binoculars instead. I’ve come to realize that taking photos is mostly about future gratification: to create (and show others) a great shot later, and to remember what was. Looking through binoculars, by contrast, is a totally immediate, present experience. Also, it’s visually richer (sharper, larger, stereo image) and commands attention in a completely different way. I notice more of the details, and savour them more. It’s more synaesthetic than photography. It engages the emotions more. It quietens intellectual processing.

My self, however, is disconcerted — it wants to capture and save and analyze the image, as it can with a camera, but cannot with binoculars. Instead, it goes to work trying to memorize, which of course is impossible (too many details), so instead it starts to describe in words. It wants to make meaning of it. It appears the self is reluctant to just look, without judgement or thought about what it sees. It doesn’t see any point or purpose to doing so.

Do some sensory experiences by-pass the self’s intermediation?  T S Eliot wrote: “Midnight shakes the memory | As a madman shakes a dead geranium.”  What is it about some highly sensory events that seems more profound than anything our self can conceive of? Even more than touch, smell is to me a visceral sensation, the sense least amenable to verbal description. Smells evoke memories, not of events but rather of ambiences, moods, or tenors of experience. They evoke certain strong emotions more powerfully than visual images, and quite differently from the way music evokes emotion. So I assembled a bunch of things that I love the smell of (candles with lilac and other essences, fresh-baked bread, raspberries, coconut, etc) and just took time, eyes closed, to inhale them and pay attention to what the scent ‘did’ to ‘me’.

Some smells seem capable of transporting me. My self seems to drop completely out of the picture when this happens. This is true even when the smell evokes a memory — normally the self, when it remembers, immediately starts constructing a story about what happened and what it meant. But when the memory is “shaken” by a smell, this doesn’t happen: There is only a recalling of what was sensed, what was felt, with almost no mental energy about context or meaning. It seems that some smells can ‘short-circuit’ the intermediary role of the self and connect directly to something raw and primeval, something pre-separation.

What does the self make of sex?  Some non-dualists say that sex is the closest the self-inflicted person can get to oneness, while others suggest sex is just a distraction, an unreal escape, like alcohol, from the self’s frustration and unhappiness. For most mammals and birds, sexual arousal is a rare state that seems solely focused on reproduction. But there are some exceptions. For bonobos, sex with others is apparently a key means of calming anxiety (average frequency, even in very early childhood, is five times a day — and it’s always consensual — but the duration of each act is usually quite short). And while humans aren’t the only animals that masturbate, finding it pleasurable seems to require that there be a ‘story’ to go along with the sensation (a recent memory or fantasy). The unprecedented frequency and duration of aroused self-stimulation among humans suggests our selves, and their stories, are much more developed and complex than other animals’.

So it would seem that sex is important to the self because it calms some of the ‘helpless’ feelings (uncontrollable fear, hopeless grief, impotent anger) that the self is directly responsible for producing in the first place (only creatures with selves that feel they are in control of the situation can possibly feel such conflicted emotions). It would also seem that sex is important to our selves because it keeps ‘us’ addicted to the ‘story of me’. Once the self falls away, sex may well cease to be an imperative, a preoccupation, a needed mitigator of debilitating emotion, and may become no more or less important than any other pleasurable diversion.

How is the self involved in the creative process? I recently wrote (at the end of this post) that I wanted to practice writing every day until I had produced some small creative work meeting certain specific criteria. Just before that I had written what I thought was my best creative work in nearly a year, a short piece called Invisible. My subsequent “miniatures” haven’t nearly measured up. Why not, I wondered, when I have the criteria right in front of me?

Was Invisible produced, I pondered, in spite of my self? Did my self have anything to do with it, with the right, clever words and well-articulated phrases just coming to mind, the appropriate metaphors, alliterations, allusions, rich images, ironic observations (with a little critical editing of course)? If the conscious self/mind is not involved, where does this creativity come from: Is oneness speaking through me when my self temporarily and briefly gets out of the way? Sometimes it seems that way. I am aware that while this piece was pretty good, much better writing yet is possible, and my sense is that I’m on the cusp of producing something exceptional. That’s why I have tried to work at it (and many great writers insist that the principal necessary precondition to great writing is the disciplined practice of writing every day). But working at it, trying, seemingly makes no difference. Good writing comes, or it doesn’t. Perhaps it’s like the falling away of the self in that way. Perhaps the two are connected.

It’s a strange disease, this grasping, ubiquitous self. It wants to do its best for ‘me’, which it equates with itself. It knows it doesn’t exist, but doesn’t seem able to come to grips with this understanding, to ‘real-ize’ it. It wants ‘me’ to be happy, but not at the cost of losing itself. When it falls away, there are brief, astonishing glimpses of all-there-is, enough to persuade any self that that reality is the only real one, and is safe and whole and leaves no reason whatsoever for the self to have to hang around — but still, instead of getting out of the way for good, the self comes back, insisting it has more work to do.

When I do experiments like these, there’s a tendency to start think of the self as something separate from ‘the real me’. That’s the critical failing, I think, of non-radical (traditional) non-duality teachers — they encourage this evidently dualistic belief that ‘behind’ the self there is some real, authentic you, free of all the anxieties and negative feelings and useless thoughts that the self has. But all that does is to create yet another ego, another separation.

So while it is useful to see the self from a third person perspective, as these exercises were designed to do, I think it’s important to recognize that I am my self, and the self’s failings and delusions are mine. Denying that is just a mind game, another level of delusion.

There is no me, no mind, no self. But as long as there appears to be one, it seems only prudent to try to get to know it, not as a flawed room-mate, but as my self, the cause of ‘my’ disease.

Posted in Our Culture / Ourselves | 3 Comments

The Other Extinction

image by Marsel van Ooosten via
“Listen to this,” Ren said, looking up from his laptop. “This cog scientist Donald Hoffman ‘has spent the past three decades studying perception, artificial intelligence, evolutionary game theory and the brain, and his conclusion is a dramatic one: The world presented to us by our perceptions is nothing like reality. What’s more, he says, we have evolution itself to thank for this magnificent illusion, as it maximizes evolutionary fitness by driving truth to extinction’.”

He smiled at Gabrielle, who was playing with Ren’s cat. The cat, named Vegan, was jumping between several dozen handmade padded shelves that extended up and down all the walls of the main room of Ren’s house. Apparently the whimsical display, which included a swinging bridge, a solar-powered elevator and a three-level tree-house, had been written up in the local paper, and friends often brought their cats over to play with Vegan and try out the contraptions. Some cats were apparently more impressed than others.

Ren continued: “That idea is entirely consistent with non-duality. The apparent reality of the separate ‘self’ arose as an adaptation of the survival instinct, and it’s a complete fiction, but, as Einstein said ‘a very persistent one’. C’m’ere a minute and watch this.”

Gabrielle stopped and watched the video.  “Seems reasonable,” she said. “But what use is that information? What we may perceive may not be ‘real’ reality, but it’s all we have. It’s not like we have a choice to give up perceiving the world through the ‘interface’ of the self, and see it as it really is.”

“Yes, you’re right, ‘we’ don’t have a choice, but that’s because there is no ‘we’. When the self falls away after it’s seen to no longer serve a useful evolutionary purpose, suddenly true reality, or what non-dualists call ‘natural’ reality, is seen. What was the apparently separate ‘we’ vanishes, and what is left is the awesome inseparable oneness that is all-there-is. Or so I’m told.” Ren smiled, turning up his palms.

“And what makes you say that the self no longer serves an evolutionary purpose?,” Gabrielle replied. She sat on Ren’s brightly-coloured hammock swing in the middle of the room and slowly began to move it back and forwards.

Ren picked up Vegan and perched her on his shoulder. “I’m going even further than that. I’m saying it never really did. It was an evolutionary mistake. The evolution of our large brains was what actually increased our survival fitness — the brain’s capacity to model reality, anticipate and identify possibilities and prepare for them. But then something went wrong: The self emerged as an unanticipated consequence of the brain’s capacity to model reality. It mistook the map for the territory, the model for the reality. The brain’s very useful model seemed to suggest that there was something called ‘separateness’, and the emergent self was the embodiment of this ‘enhancement’ of the model. The self/mind reasoned that if survival was advanced by mis-perceiving entities as being separate (as the model did), then those entities were (in its ‘reality’) in fact separate, and the self could and should fear and protect the separate entity from ‘others’. But that mis-perception is actually leading to a great extinction that includes our own demise. And in the process that mis-perception has made us self-inflicted, anxious, dysfunctional basket cases.”

Gabrielle laughed and raised her eyebrows. “Well if there’s only oneness, it’s a bit of a conceit to believe self-deluded humans can actually destroy it, don’t you think?”

Vegan launched herself from Ren’s shoulder to a perch on the swing above Gabrielle’s head, landing ungracefully but righting herself quickly as if that was her intention all along, and swatting a cat toy suspended from the ceiling each time the swing passed close enough.

Ren replied: “We don’t actually destroy it, we just inadvertently make it apparently unfit for us, and for all life on Earth, until extinction takes us out of the game. But the game goes on, and will continue perfectly without us. Apparently.” He started drawing on the white board behind his computer:


He pointed at his drawing and expounded: “Imagine that the newly self-inflicted ‘individual’ is like a young child given a new laptop and being told that this laptop monitors and controls critical events in her life and protects her from unknown dangers, so she needs to use it diligently. Unfortunately the interface isn’t very good — the keyboard doesn’t work very well and error messages keep randomly appearing for no clear reason. And there’s no instruction manual, just what others have told her to do or not do. And everyone else has also received a similar laptop and they seem to be doing OK with it, so she just keeps trying her whole life to make the best of it — to run the right apps at the right time and fix the bugs and update for new virus protection and so on.”

He sighed and looked at what he’d drawn. Then he continued: “What she doesn’t realize is that all her frenzied activity at the machine really makes no difference at all — the laptop actually works autonomously with nearly-perfect software to protect and support her, and it completely ignores everything she does through the keyboard. The ‘desktop’ displays what’s going on, and usually it seems to be responding to the user’s keystrokes and other inputs, but this is entirely to humour the user — the program itself is far too complex to entrust control to someone who doesn’t know exactly what they’re doing. Now imagine that the user suddenly realizes this— that she ‘herself’ need do nothing, after years of struggle with this awkward and poorly-functioning tool. How would she feel — astonished, annoyed at the wasted effort, puzzled? Liberated?”

“That’s a pretty fragile metaphor,” Gabrielle replied. “But I like the distinction between the brain and the self/mind. I never thought about it that way: the large, imaginative brain being the successful evolutionary advance, and the self/mind being a rather useless, high-maintenance appendage that happened to come with it — an interesting but problematic emergence made possible by the capacities of the large brain, but in the long run mainly just a source of great anxiety and commensurate stressed activity. The worm in the wonderful new apple. I like that part of it. Most people probably couldn’t conceive of the brain functioning without the mind controlling it, or of them even being separate ‘things’.”

“But I have a better metaphor for you about the interface thing,” she added. She took the markers and eraser from Ren’s white board, erased the right side of what he’d done, and filled in the blank area anew:


“You’re going to love this,” she said, smiling. “You’re the one who says organizations actually operate through workarounds by the people at the front lines doing what the customer wants and needs despite what the policy manual says and what the technology tries to enforce. Think of your body as an enterprise, or a complicity if you will. The front line workers in the enterprise are the senses, tuned into the customers’ needs, and the collective intelligence of the whole organization — what by consensus and knowledge-sharing (rather than by fiat) gets invented, iterated, agreed upon and done — is its brain. Now tell me if it isn’t obvious what its ‘mind’ is?”

Ren jumped up and clapped. “I love it!,” he exclaimed. “Just as enterprises would do just as well, if not better, without their over-rated, mostly-useless disconnected management, the human animal would do as well if not better without the self/mind. Not without the brain, but without the self, without the mind. You’re a genius!”

Gabrielle bowed. Vegan looked at them curiously.

Jumping off the swing and grabbing her coffee mug off one of the cat wall shelves, Gabrielle wandered into the kitchen, calling back to Ren: “And my metaphor is analog. Organic.”

.     .     .     .     .

“So now I have a question for you,” Gabrielle said, returning with a fresh cup of coffee. “To what extent do you think humans are actually ‘blank slates’? I’m not talking about morality or gender identity or anything like that when I say ‘blank slates’ — only idiots and economists still deny that humans and most other creatures are inherently cooperative and unselfish within their ‘tribe’. I’m talking about what we are, or would be, without the influence of our culture. I see culture as inherently propagandistic and coercive, another unfortunate artifact of evolution. What do you think a human being would be if she were completely free of any cultural influence?”

Ren had taken Gabrielle’s place on the swing, and Vegan was in his lap. “Hmmm,” he said. “Well, in the first place, cultures don’t actually exist. Just as ‘systems’ aren’t real — they’re just generalizations about the complex and unknowable, mental patterning by a species that loves to see cause and effect and correlation even when it means nothing and is completely useless — so too are cultures just a fiction, a meaning we assign to what we perceive as collective behaviour, when there is really none.”

“But,” he went on, “it might be interesting to speculate about what a human might be without enculturation — without any of the beliefs and behaviours that stick to you because they are reinforced so often by so many that you cease to question them. For a start, I’d guess that a tribe of un-encultured people would do things together intuitively rather than ritually, and not need or value an abstract language of any kind. They might not have ‘selves’ at all — no ‘individual’ beliefs or behaviours or habits or patterns of activity — because they wouldn’t be seen as needed.”

“So how would the ‘blank slate’ be filled in?,” she asked. “Take me through one of your weird ‘thought experiments’. Let me picture her growing up.” She sat beside Ren in the swing. Ren looked concerned — the swing wasn’t meant for two. But he shrugged and said:

“OK. Let’s imagine we kidnap a whole bunch of new-born babies and smuggle them away to some ‘uncivilized’ place — let’s say some remote place in the tropical rainforest. They’re still just oneness at that age. They have no sense of self. So we hire some shape-shifting empathic language-free adult-looking aliens, and have them act out the role of care-givers: Breast-feeding, lots of physical contact, affection, attention and appreciation for several years, the whole Gabor Maté thing. The rainforest gives them all they need, and they’re generally safe in the trees, though jaguars are occasionally a concern. So they grow up together, relatively anxiety-free, without formal language (they don’t need it), and without being affected by the neuroses of adults. What do they do? Like all young wild creatures, they play. That’s how they learn. In accordance with Pollard’s Law of Human Behaviour, except when some rare issue of stress or scarcity comes up, when they would presumably cooperate to deal with it, they would spend their time doing things that are easy and fun.”

“And then they’d grow up, and then what would they do?,” Gabrielle asked. “Would they be more like chimps, or bonobos? Or Robert Sapolsky’s baboons?”

Ren went over to his fridge and pulled off a page from an anarchist magazine that he’d taped to it. He handed it to Gabrielle. “This is how Wolfi Landstreicher thinks they would turn out” he replied:

In a very general way, we know what we want. We want to live as wild, free beings in a world of wild, free beings. The humiliation of having to follow rules, of having to sell our lives away to buy survival, of seeing our usurped desires transformed into abstractions and images in order to sell us commodities fills us with rage. How long will we put up with this misery? We want to make this world into a place where our desires can be immediately realized, not just sporadically, but normally. We want to re-eroticize our lives. We want to live not in a dead world of resources, but in a living world of free wild lovers. We need to start exploring the extent to which we are capable of living these dreams in the present without isolating ourselves. This will give us a clearer understanding of the domination of civilization over our lives, an understanding which will allow us to fight domestication more intensely and so expand the extent to which we can live wildly.

“That’s how I think we would be without enculturation,” Ren said. “It’s how some of us seem to be even with it. Maybe Wolfi is one of them. Maybe E E Cummings was, too. Maybe there’s not much difference between being “nobody but yourself” and being self-less. Or undomesticated. Or uncivilized. I don’t know.”

They swung back and forth silently for a few moments, with Vegan sitting half in Ren’s lap and half in Gabrielle’s as they stroked her together. Vegan was purring. Finally Gabrielle stood and pulled Ren to his feet, taking his hand and leading him out of the room.

“Where are we going?,” he asked.

“We’re going to extinguish our selves, and the truth,” she replied.

He looked at her mischievously. “That sounds like fun.”

“Not what you’re thinking,” she said. She pulled him out to his art-and-tool shed. She pointed to some lengths and panels of wood, then to his toolbox, and then to the apple tree in his yard. “We’re going to build a tree house. A home for wayward bonobos.”

For the next three days they worked around the clock, with Vegan supervising. When they finished, they had built a two-story playhouse, extending between the apple tree and an oak tree nearby. It had a roof, a rope ladder between the two levels, a ramp leading down to Ren’s hot tub, a rainproof carpet, a screened area for sleeping, and a set of solar-powered night-lights. And of course, a swing.

The evening they finished, they sat in the lower story, watching the sunset and an approaching storm. They ate raw veggies and dip from Gabrielle’s garden (Vegan, perched above them, ate fish that Ren had recently caught for her), and drank Ren’s homemade wine. They played a cooperative board game, and spoke using sign language:

<<“Desires immediately realized”>> he signed to her, smiling and looking at the reflection of the lights on the leaves of the apple tree.

<<And look,>> she signed back, plucking an apple from the tree just above her head:

<<No worms.>>



Posted in Creative Works | 6 Comments

My Best Stuff


I‘ve spent the last few days re-reading about 300 of what must be at least 2500 posts on this blog. I started it in February 2003, churning out short articles an average of at least once a day until 2007, longer pieces once every second day in 2008-09, and mostly essay-length pieces once a week since my retirement in 2010.

What I re-read were the articles I rated as my best two years ago, plus a bunch that I’d omitted but more recently re-discovered and considered adding to the list, plus everything I’d written these last two years. As I did, I deleted 11 articles from the list, despite the fact some of them had garnered a lot of attention, most of it complimentary. After culling a short list of possible additions, I added 16 new articles, bringing the current total to 58. They’re listed in the right sidebar. I’ve kept the four categories, but within each, they’re now listed from most recent to earliest. The pie chart above shows the distribution of these 58 posts by year. I’m at a loss to explain the year-to-year variances, which don’t correlate at all to my busyness or health.

There is also little correlation between my assessment of the quality of the article and the number of comments it received (including more recently the number of Facebook/ Twitter comments and ‘shares’). I did however weigh the tenor of the comments in deciding which articles belonged in the list.

Some of the articles are a bit dated and reflect beliefs I no longer hold; I’ve decided not to tamper with them. I will update the ‘Save the World’ reading list again.

I’m toying with the idea of creating a PDF of all 58 articles, and perhaps a separate PDF of all the book reviews I’ve written here (few of which made the list-of-58) that serve as my auxiliary memory from time to time.


Posted in _ Uncategorized | 1 Comment

play date

image by Ed Gregory from pexels — CC0 licensed

The shirtless stranger walks along the beach
and when he passes you,
as you are sunning and picnicking with your two friends
he smiles and waves

You smile and frown back, a mixed message,
waving half-guardedly, half-dismissively,
and, seeing that, he stops, and turns,
and begins to signal you with his hands

He points to himself, then covers his mouth with his fingers,
to convey that for some reason he cannot speak

He points to you, and then rubs his heart —
a flattery; when you laugh, he tilts his head,
points to himself, then to you, and then, smiling,
makes little walking gestures with his fingers,
and shrugs, looking at you intently with eyebrows raised:
an invitation

You smile back, skeptically, and as you meet his gaze
you shake your head, and look over at your companions,
who are laughing and urging you to go with him

He pouts, gently, and shrugs, and then turns away
then stops, turns back, points to himself
and makes pious motions with his hands,
then draws a halo symbol over his head:
to say he will not hurt you; and then
he makes a pleading motion with his hands
and reaches one arm out toward you,
beckoning you with his fingertips,
raises his eyebrows in a face of anticipation
and holds his breath

You scowl at him disapprovingly, but you are still smiling,
and he sees an almost imperceptible shift in your body,
as you rise, point at your companions, accusingly,
and then slowly walk over to him

He raises his arms in a childish expression of utter joy,
bows to you, and then, with an exaggerated swirl of his arms,
bows to your companions, and offers you his hand

You take it, and again he puts his fingers to his lips,
and then to yours,
to remind you that there is, it seems, to be no talking

As you walk, he points out things you’ve never noticed,
though you’ve tramped this beach a hundred times before:
a turtle, grazing in the shallow water among some low rocks;
seabirds diving into the pounding surf
and emerging with fish in their beaks;
the courtship of two mynas, heads bobbing,
a lovely, silly, synchronized ritual

Then from a resort near the water’s edge
comes the sound of Afro-Cuban music
and the stranger lifts your arm with his
and invites you to walk beneath it;
and you dance

His arms embrace you, steer you, lead you on,
with gentle and respectful grace

As you dance on, the stranger points out a sand-bar
a short swim out from the water’s edge;
you look at him dubiously, so he lets your arm go
and takes a few steps in, then reaches back, and nods

So you go with him, and the water is so warm —
you swim together through the pounding surf
and in no time you alight on the sand-bar
looking to those on shore
as if you walk on water

From a bag strapped to his waist,
he pulls a set of goggles,
fits them over your eyes,
then pulls you softly down into the water,
and as you open your eyes
schools of angelfish and wrasse
dart around your legs:
an underwater rainbow

Soon after, back on shore
you jump to reach some plumeria blooms,
but they are too high in the tree,
so the stranger kneels and motions you
to climb onto his shoulders
and you do

And as you thread the just-picked flowers through your hair
he walks on, his arms upraised to keep you from falling
and you tighten your bare legs around his neck
and grasp his large, soft hands

The world looks different from up there,
and you don’t even notice you’ve turned around
and are back close to your vacation home
and your friends, staring incredulously
as you approach

Gently, he lifts you down,
and bows again, to you and your companions;
you walk back into his arms, your arms around his neck,
and for the benefit of your wide-eyed hooting friends
you kiss him, slow and long and deep

And for what seems like forever
you just hold hands and look at each other,
and then, with a nod and a sigh,
he lets you go, smiles sadly, waves gently, and walks away

Posted in Creative Works | 1 Comment


painting by Dmytro Ivashchenko on wikimedia — CC-by-SA 4.0

It’s 80 degrees on the quiet sand, at midnight
but the wind is howling and the rain is starting up again

There is no one on the beach —
it’s usually quiet here anyway, the resort beach is a bit narrow
and there’s more popular ones just up the path

I can’t sleep, so I put on my bathing suit, grab my little flashlight
and wander down across the grass, cursing the stones and shells
on my bare feet,
past the narrow strip of trees and shrubs
where the feral cats live,
just beyond where the low path lights cast their lovely glow

I find a beach chaise and drag it onto the sand
where the waves just reach, and lie down on it
staring at the moonless sky and the dark warm sea,
like a tropical Canute

And the rains come down, so hard you can’t see
and I’m soaked but it’s warm and crazy
and on impulse I strip off my suit and lie there, naked
asking for a sign

This is the first result of a (hopefully) daily creative writing practice. The objective is to keep writing until something is produced that (at least to me) meets five criteria:

  1. It is lyrical, using words carefully chosen to flow, to hang together smoothly and strikingly, and to be, in places (especially the title or the beginning or end), memorable.
  2. It is observant, invoking imagery to ‘notice’ something that the casual observer might easily miss.
  3. It evokes an emotional response, referencing something that stirs the memory or imagination, or a sense of recognition and connection in the reader. And it leaves something to the imagination.
  4. It evokes an intellectual response, showing the reader something they may have sensed but didn’t know before, or saying something in a clever way that lets what is described be seen in a new light. To this end, ambiguity is fine if it is deliberate and not mean-spirited or pretentious.
  5. It is spare, with everything that doesn’t add something, left out.

I think identifying the criteria above, and the process of assessing my work against them, is probably at least as important as the miniature creative works I am hoping it will produce. And I am hopeful that over time the quality of these works will improve. It’s about time, I think.


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Fall Out

In recent weeks I’ve heard laments from several colleagues that their lives are so busy (mostly with the needs of of the moment — family, personal, health, financial and workplace struggles, and keeping their homes and other stuff in working order), that they have no bandwidth left for things they thought they’d have time for by now — activism, writing, volunteerism, beloved hobbies, building community, and just thinking about what they want to be doing next. Some wonder if they will ever have time for these important things — if they will ever have time for themselves. Time when nothing else urgently has to be done.

Our culture does its best to fill up our time so we don’t have any left to question or challenge the status quo. That’s a successful evolutionary strategy for any culture: Keep ’em with their nose to the grindstone, obedient and distracted to death. I tried to capture this when I coined Pollard’s Law of Human Behaviour:

Humans have apparently evolved to do what we must (the personal, unavoidable imperatives of the moment), then do what’s easy, and then do what’s fun. There is never time left for things that are seen as merely important. Social, political and economic change therefore happens only when the old generation dies and a new generation with different entrained beliefs and imperatives takes over. Humans have, through all of this, evolved to be a collaborative and caring species, and we are all doing our best — we cannot do otherwise.

After I retired, nearly seven years ago, I was looking for a peaceful place and a quiet period of time to take stock of my life, recover from all the then-recent major changes in my life, and start to figure out how to “give back” something in return for my blessed life, good fortune and privilege.

Initially, I plunged into clearing a massive backlog of things that had been waiting for ‘time’ to be done — cultivating new relationships, writing, composing, studying, volunteering, increasing my self-awareness and self-healing, and trying (mostly unsuccessfully — perseverance, focus, and attention to detail are not my forté) to learn some new skills and try some interesting local experiments. In striving to do all this I reached the point where my calendar was nearly as full as it was when I had substantial family and work responsibilities.

But now, I’m starting to say “no” to most requests of my time and energy: It seems there is no limit to the number of demands people will make of your time if they perceive you have a lot of it. And I’m starting to have the same realization about my 7 post-retirement years that I had about my 37 working years: While much of what I’ve done was seemingly important at the time, none of it has really accomplished (or seems likely to achieve) anything particularly enduring.

That’s not to say all these years have been a waste of time: What I’ve done, I’m told, has been helpful, useful, supportive, and instructive to many others. Perhaps that’s enough. But if those people have also accomplished nothing that’s enduring, what exactly is all that ‘helpful’ activity worth? Is our life’s work ultimately just about helping each other make the prison of our exhausting and struggle-filled lives more comfortable? Is there nothing to show for all the bother but a collective “feeling better about ourselves”?

When I first began to wake up some mornings with the magic feeling of having nothing to do, nowhere to go, it didn’t take long before the feelings of guilt over my privilege and “lazy” inactivity arose. And with them came an avalanche of shoulds: I should volunteer to do this. I should contribute to that, and help out with this, too.

But if, as I now believe, we can’t change our culture or prevent its desolating collapse, and if we have no agency, no volition, free will or choice over what ‘we’ seemingly do in any case, then the guilt is ill-conceived and pointless. The activists and humanists — the believers in choice and responsibility and the debt that comes with privilege — can curse me all they want, but I seemingly am doing the only thing I can possibly do, conditioned by my culture’s indoctrination and my innate nature. For the past seven years “the only thing I can possibly do” has been, most often, the shoulds. What will it be now?

When you finally have the rare and extraordinary privilege of not having to do anything, when you move past the guilt of that privilege and the tyranny of shoulds, and when you realize that you have no agency or control or will or responsibility for what you do, what do you do then (not what should you do — what do you do)? What sense can be made of the observation of what one consequently does (or doesn’t do)? If I am not, but still I expect things of myself, and others still expect things of me, what then? And what sense do make of how it feels to seemingly do nothing, to just be? If all there is, is this — what is to be done?

What are some possible answers to these impossible questions?

Let’s set aside for a moment the desirable but improbable (or impossible) outcome that one’s self will just fall away, leaving the self-less character (that once thought itself to be a separate individual) staring at the world wide-eyed, seeing everything as new, seeing everything as it really is for the first time.

One possibility, that I’ve referred to before, is that the “seen-through” self will be treated as a chronic and likely incurable disease, not unlike any other disease: the “me” will just get used to this newly-apparent affliction and work through and around it as well as possible. The difference is that this incurable disease is one that everyone around us has, too — and most people are completely unaware of having it, and of the terrible consequences of having it. My sense is that more and more people will come to realize they have it, and search for a “cure”. If they are wise they will strongly resist “teachers” and anyone else who proffers a treatment for this disease, since it will be clear to them that as long as the self remains, there is no cure. Most, I suspect, will not be so wise.

Still, there is at least “making the prison of the self more comfortable”. But how comfortable can anyone be knowing that the prison is an illusion, that we are entirely self-confined? It seems likely that the frustration of this knowledge, and the cognitive dissonance of living a life seemingly in denial of our self-confinement, will far outweigh any sense of temporary comfort we can accumulate in our cells. We might even feel we are going insane, if it is possible to be more insane than believing the separate self is actually real.

Tony Parsons describes the feeling that arises when the contraction of energy produces the apparent self as “a sense of loss”. Yet the end of the self is also, apparently, a kind of loss. I wonder whether the meetings that he and other radical non-dualists have are really a kind of grief support group — except that this is a kind of loss (and therefore grief) that endures either until the self vanishes, or the body dies.

My other incurable disease (ulcerative colitis), because it has been in remission for so long, has only given me a dim sense of what it is like to live with a debilitating, chronic and incurable illness. At its worst, I remember it being so all-consuming that there were no emotions or thoughts whatsoever associated with it (they came later) — my entire energy at the time was caught up in the moment-to-moment coping process.

The disease of the self is more like a nagging, phantom, not-yet-identified disease — one that is not recognized or felt as real, even when one has great intellectual clarity that it is. I may understand that this disease underlies all my fears and anxieties and introduces a veil that mutes and muddies everything that is real, but that understanding does not alleviate the symptoms. And it seems not only possible but completely ‘normal’ to just cope with this disease — after all, we all have it, and if we act intelligently and responsibly we seemingly manage to live full and rich and successful lives in spite of it — even though we may know conceptually that ‘we’ are not real and that ‘we’ are in control of nothing.

Some people I know think it would be best for ‘me’ if I’d just “get over my self” — which apparently means behaving as if I didn’t know the terrible truth about it, and entails behaving as if I was responsible and in control, and as if I saw the ‘affliction’ of self as a mere invention, a self-indulgence, untrue and unreal. When I hear the same advice proffered to people suffering from other debilitating, incurable (and often poorly diagnosed) diseases, I can’t help thinking it’s cruel advice.

Although I am sure Patrick McGoohan wasn’t writing about non-duality in his brilliant 1960s series The Prisoner, it’s a brilliant allegory for it: McGoohan awakens one day to find himself in a bizarre prison “village” where the rest of the prisoners seem blithely unaware of their predicament. Throughout the series, he tries unsuccessfully to escape, and to identify who has imprisoned him and why. In the final episode (intriguingly entitled “Fall Out”) he gets a glimpse of his captor — which seems to be himself.

That seems to be where I am and what I am trying to do now — escape my self, despite knowing it’s futile to try to do so. With all my ‘free’ time, it’s the only thing ‘I’ can do.

Posted in Our Culture / Ourselves | 1 Comment