Categories
Behavior Being Culture Experience Nostalgia

Alive and Thriving

I’m nostalgic about my days that straddled the turn of the New Millennium as a wannabe Goth. The core of this persona manifested at an event called The Asylum every Sunday night in a, perhaps odd, not-so-little Sacramento nightclub called The Rage. Physically, the club occupied a retail shop space in an outdoor strip-mall. It was located a few doors down from another former-shop-space-turned-nightclub called InCahoots–a popular haunt frequented by many a rowdy redneck. I recall shaking my head at the yawning chasm that separated the two crowds in terms of philosophy and attitude.

At The Asylum, nearly always by myself, I mimicked the moon-dances I performed by many a pale, sometimes-slim-but-more-often-shapely, conspicuously-costumed female. It was essential that their costumes produce contrast, especially between their pale faces and dark, or artificially-bright, hair. Out on the dance floor, for all club-goers to see, they danced stone-faced giving off an air of practiced indifference to everything except the music that guided their sways. I greatly admired their confidence and, perhaps a bit, their nonchalance, though I did not try to imitate it. At first I attempted to dance as they did. That is, by emitting movements intended to be smooth and graceful. But my dancing quickly devolved into a rather rapid and terse stomp-and-kick. I suspect testosterone had had its way.

For me, the magic of The Asylum manifested from the tendency of dancers to move to the music how they wanted to; in accordance with what came to them naturally. There was something almost spiritual about it. Importantly, I do not recall anyone ever being explicitly called out for dancing how they did, or with whom they did, or for happily dancing by themselves, as I did.

The Asylum was, what is now called, a safe space, at a time when violence motivated by homo- and trans-phobia was still rampant and somewhat tolerated. Of course, some Asylum-goers went to try and hook up. Others, perhaps to show off how “Goth” they were. But I went primarily to dance, as I suspect most did. I differed in that, unlike most solo Asylum-goers who would eventually be accepted into the fold, I never gained this acceptance back then. For whatever, probably patho-psychological, reason about which I am still unaware, my matriculation did not occur though I attended the event pretty religiously for more than two years. One time some dude even asked me if I was a cop.

My sexuality is (boringly) cis. I believe myself to be unusual in that, as a straight man, I get the urge to immerse myself in music–to meld with the rhythm through movement. The great thing about The Asylum, then, was that I could do so without being judged, mocked or reprimanded. Perhaps most normal heterosexual males would view the event with hookup potential. I admit, there was one particular female Goth regular to whom I was so physically drawn, that I still remember her face and figure 25 years later. I never approached her though; my self-consciousness always won out over my courage, much to my regret. Perhaps a part of me did not want to risk tainting my sacred space with potential embarrassment I would undoubtedly feel if my interest in her was not reciprocated.

Alas, sometime in the the late aughts The Rage had closed. And over the course of the next decade or so, I believe The Asylum coalesced into, and dissolved back out of, existence in various venues throughout Sacramento a number of times. From what I can tell, the city’s Goth scene never really died out completely, but it did seem to be on life-support for a number of years (c. 2010-2020). Every so often I’d voyeuristically inspect the state of the Sacramento Goth scene via vicarious internet search, hoping for signs of recovery to its turn-of-the-Millennium glory that I remember so fondly.

Well, as of at least a few days ago, it has, I’m most pleased to report. On Saturday (1/3/2026) I attended Club Necromancy at the Press Club in Midtown. It was like going back in time for me. Costumed, stone-faced dancers–both my age and half my age–moon-danced and stompy-stomped to hauntingly similar Goth/Industrial grooves that I remember from nearly a quarter century ago. Of course, there was some new music that I did not recognize that night, but most I did. And all of it I enjoyed dancing to in my own overtly aggressive way.

My flailing elicited the seemingly favorable attention of a pair of young beauties, who themselves enticed the attention of another, very hopeful and persistent, potential male suitor who they graciously tolerated. Both ladies had traffic-stopping figures that their meticulously-assembled Goth attire well accentuated. One put on display her robust mammalian assets framed by a black bodice from below and delicate shoulders of alabaster skin from above. Several times I had to remind myself to keep my eyes on her face. The other showcased her slim legs that went on for days. They were laced up in (once-ironic but now, sadly vanilla) heftiest of knee-high combat boots. Her dark hair of tight curls made me wonder if Scarface-era Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio had rematerialized as a Goth chick. Surprisingly, the two actually seemed reasonably nice as well. I gathered this when each of them broke stone-face to smile back at me a few times over the course of the night.

Despite all the above nonsense, my biggest take-away from the event was that I felt the same way I recall feeling at The Asylum many years ago. That is, the same freedom to be who I am through movement and dance. Also, that I can continue to remain anonymous, without it being anybody’s issue.

And I intend to make the most of it while it lasts.

Categories
Being Culture Experience

Weird Memory

It has been rainy and cold outside for weeks and I’ve been feeling rather shut in lately. My hope was to find for a quiet place to work this afternoon somewhere other than my house. Right now I’m buzzing hard from the half pot of coffee I unwittingly consumed this morning, so I would prefer not to fork over $6+ to rent a seat at an espresso shop. While I meandered aimlessly down Court street in my car, trying to hash out an alternative, I came upon Woodland Public Library to my left. I thought to myself: “it’s quiet, it has Wi-Fi and I don’t need to pay to occupy a seat there…” Why not?

Well, I recal the last time I frequented the old WPL, and most of available seating then was in close proximity to folks of Woodland’s burgeoning homeless community. And hey, I can’t say I really blame them for keeping warm and enjoying the space that 99% of Woodland’s “respectable” population does not utilize at all. But today I do not want to be reminded of the dire situation that our good old American values, and “free market” economy has put us in. Please don’t judge me as too callous, I very much want to help solve homelessness; but today I’m just looking for a quiet place where I can work without distraction. Fast-forward: on entering I was surprised–and more than a bit concerned–to discover few homeless persons, if any, occupying space inside on this rainiest of days. Probably the result of some city mandate sponsored, and approved by, Woodland conservatives.

I pulled into the parking lot and maneuvered my vehicle into a space that faced the library’s side entrance; the access point through the newer appendage of the building that, in my elementary school days, was grafted onto the original Carnegie-funded structure. Right then, Kate K., a girl on whom I crushed hard in junior high school, forcefully manifested in my thoughts. I have not thought about her in years.

Kate sat in the seat in front of mine in 8th grade English class. She was part of the tribe of girls in our classes for “gifted” students whose socially-stunted male counterparts, like me, were just starting to notice. I remember Kate’s childlike facial features seemed too delicate to support her 90’s-style, big-lensed glasses framed with thin rims of bold red or green. We laughed together at random things: classmates, assignments, teachers, the ridiculousness that was PE class. This we did, as adolescents do, often in lieu of doing whatever the task be at hand: paying attention, reading, doing in-class writing assignments. Kate was so easy for me to talk to. Our conversations, for me, were often a temporary escape from my acute self-consciousness. As time passed and I got to know her, I wondered how she could be so honest and unpretentious, when most other pretty girls her age I could not seem to relate to very well at all. That is, on rare occasions when they actually were interested in talking to me.

Kate volunteered at the Woodland Public Library after school a couple days a week. Probably as a protracted commitment that grew from the compulsory volunteer work we had to do for school a couple months prior. On one unusual afternoon, while working on a school assignment at the library with my friend Nico S., Kate sat down at a table with us and engaged us in conversation for, what must have been, the rest of her shift. She seemed excited to see us and I recall us having a blast evidenced by the several times we were shushed by grown ups who came to the library with the same expectation of quiet that I do today as a crotchety middle-aged man. I got the inside scoop on several of our classmates whom she had known all through elementary school. One particularly scandalous piece of gossip she revealed that day: the only reason that one particular male classmate got attention from girls was because of well-circulated rumors that he was well-endowed. Looking back, I’m kind of mortified that she knew this about him at that age and that she so freely shared it with us sitting there at in the library within earshot of so many.

I could never figure out if Kate was ever interested in me as a potential boyfriend. It didn’t matter, I later learned that she was the target of many a male adolescent crush at the time. She was pursued by Deni C. who won her affections by drawing her portrait of her from behind, as she sat on a stool staring forward in her shop class. She showed me the picture one day in English; it was good drawing that captured Kate’s likeness well. I remember admiring Deni for his initiative. Of course, I was also disappointed. By the time I realized my feelings for Kate were starting to slant more toward the romantic, I also realized she had ascended out of my league. Such is life I suppose. She and Deni became the item in 8th and 9th grade. Kate and I still talked, but she had understandably become a bit less open, and perhaps less flirty, if that had actually been going on in the past.

Later, the summer before my junior year while getting the jump on the US history requirement in summer school, Kate told me that her friend from art class, Jen S., was interested in me. Now, the art tribe were the cool kids as far as I saw it, so I was definitely interested, if not also intimidated. Surprisingly I hadn’t recalled ever seeing Jen before; she was in the class ahead of ours, and senior girls I never considered to be even a remote possibility for me to date. I was further intimidated to find out that Jen too was quite pretty: she had long red hair and green eyes, dressed in trendy grunge sweaters, liked Weezer, and gave me Johnny Got His Gun to read. All this I learned after finally working up the courage to call Jen weeks after Kate gave me her number.

Now, truth be told, my courting of Jen was an absolute train wreck. When we talked on the phone I thought it would be cool if I played music in the background; it was not, and she was much annoyed. We discussed the M.C. Escher drawing of two hands–each hand drawing the other–and argued passionately about the symmetry. The term “dumbass” was used much to my regret. The only time Jen and I spent together in person occurred during an outing to The Beat record store in downtown Sacramento. On the drive there I missed the freeway entrance and had to do a U-turn; Jen was not impressed. Before we set out that day, Jen’s mother made a point to tell me that Jen had gone out with another fella with purple hair a few days before. Lastly, and arguably the real issue that doomed our relationship: Jen was Pentecostal with definite views about right and wrong. She did not like that, while I had been instructed in many of the Christian morals that she lived by, I was still very unsure if I actually accepted them. I was certainly not living them to her standards. Jen stated as much in a breakup letter that Kate handed me some time later into my junior year of high school. Honestly, I was not even sure if Jen and I had ever been sufficiently “official” in the first place to merit such a scathing communication.

After even more time had passed, I remember wondering if Jen’s “interest” was the product of Kate’s match-making. Looking back, Kate was there at the start, and Kate was there at the end of whatever had gone on between Jen and me. Perhaps Kate felt obliged to try and bring me, and probably Jen, some happiness by steering us together. It would not surprise me in the least, looking back. If so, it was very kind of Kate. By all outward appearances, Jen and I probably would have seemed to be a good match despite the outcome. Kate was always a very kind person when we were in school.

I hope Kate is well these days. Jen too.

Categories
Behavior Experience History Philosophy

Bruno’s Expression

I came across this gem a couple of weeks ago. The impact with which the late Professor Bronowski asserted his “personal view” on science versus dogma cannot be overstated:

There are two parts to the human dilemma: one is the belief that the end justify the means. That push-button philosophy. That deliberate deafness to suffering that has become the monster in The War Machine. The other is the betrayal of the human spirit. The assertion of dogma that closes the mind and turns a nation, a civilization, into a regiment of ghosts [camera zooms into an open iron door to a human-sized oven]: obedient ghosts or tortured ghosts.

It’s said that science will dehumanize people and turn then into numbers. That is false, tragically false. Look for yourself [zoom out, new scene: narrator walks toward, and into, a pond outside of a complex perimeter.]: this is the crematorium and concentration camp at Auschwitz; this is where people were turned into numbers.

Into this pond were flushed the ashes of some four million people. And it was not done by gas; it was done by arrogance, it was done by dogma, it was done by ignorance! When people believe they have absolute knowledge with no test in reality, this is how they behave. This is what men do when they aspire to the knowledge of gods.

Science is a very human form of knowledge. We are always at the very brink of the known. We always feel forward for what is to be hoped. Every judgement in science stands on the edge of error and is personal. Science is a tribute to what we can know although we are fallible. In the end, the words were said by Oliver Cromwell: “I beseech you in the bowels of Christ: think it possible you may be mistaken!”

I owe it as a scientist to my late friend Leo Szilard–I owe it as a human being to the many members of my family who died here–to stand here as a survivor and as a witness. We have to cure ourselves of the itch for absolute knowledge and power. We have to close the distance between the push-button order and the human act.

[Slowly leaning down toward the pond, the narrator swoops in with his right hand and scoops up muck from the bottom, slowly bringing it up…]

We have to touch people.

Bronowski, J., The Ascent of Man, Episode 11, BBC, 1973
Categories
Being Culture Literature

What is Dignity?

Early in the story, the butler in The Remains of the Day, shares his initial conceptualization of dignity as one that stems from loyalty and pride. In his youth he believed dignity to be staunch adherence to the persona that one is expected to assume.

If one considers the difference between my father at such moments and a figure such as Mr Jack Neighbors even with the best of his technical flourishes, I believe one may distinguish what it is that separates a ‘great’ butler from a merely competent one. We may now understand better, too, why my father was so fond of the story of the butler who failed to panic after discovering a tiger under the dining table; it was because he knew instinctively that somewhere in this story lay the kernel of what true ‘dignity’ is. And let me now posit this: ‘dignity’ has to do crucially with a butler’s ability not to abandon the professional being he inhabits. Lesser butlers will abandon their professional being for the private one at the least provocation. For such persons, being a butler is like playing some pantomime role; a small push, a slight stumble, and the façade will drop off to reveal the actor underneath. The great butlers are great by virtue of their ability to inhabit their professional role and inhabit it to the utmost; they will not be shaken out by external events, however surprising, alarming or vexing. They wear their professionalism as a decent gentleman will wear his suit: he will not let ruffians or circumstance tear it off him in the public gaze; he will discard it when, and only when, he wills to do so, and this will invariably be when he is entirely alone. It is, as I say, a matter of ‘dignity’.

Ishiguro, Kazuo The remains of the day, Vintage International ed. 1993, pp 42-43.

Later on, another conception of dignity is put forth by another character whose life-experience is markedly different than the butler’s. Mr. Smith believes that dignity is produced through sacrifice to a worthy cause.

‘Mind you,’ put in Mr Harry Smith, ‘with all respect for what you say, sir, it ought to be said. Dignity isn’t just something gentlemen have. Dignity’s something every man and woman in this country can strive for and get. You’ll excuse me, sir, but like I said before, we don’t stand on ceremony here when it comes to expressing opinions. And that’s my opinion for what it’s worth. Dignity’s not just something for gentlemen.’ … ‘That’s what we fought Hitler for, after all. If Hitler had had things his way, we’d just be slaves now. The whole world would be a few masters and millions upon millions of slaves. And I don’t need to remind anyone here, there’s no dignity to be had in being a slave. That’s what we fought for and that’s what we won. We won the right to be free citizens. …’

Ishiguro, Kazuo The remains of the day, Vintage International ed. 1993, pp 185-186

Painfully, the butler faces some hard truths and he is not pleased reflecting on his past choices. His lifetime of dedicated service and professionalism did not produce within himself a sense of dignity. His prior belief proved false. On reading the passage below, the butler seems to be one of the saddest characters in modern literature in my opinion. Perhaps true dignity stems from being true to oneself.

‘Lord Darlington wasn’t a bad man. He wasn’t a bad man at all. And at least he had the privilege of being able to say at the end of his life that he had made his own mistakes. His lordship was a courageous man. He chose a certain path in life, it proved to be a misguided one, but there, he chose it, he can say that at least. As for myself, I cannot even claim that. You see, I trusted. I trusted in his lordship’s wisdom. All those years I served him, I trusted I was doing something worthwhile. I can’t even say I made my own mistakes. Really — one has to ask oneself — what dignity is there in that?’

Ishiguro, Kazuo The remains of the day, Vintage International ed. 1993, p 244

After some reflection, the butler realizes that, for most of us, most circumstances in our lives are simply beyond our control. Dignity can also come from the pursuit of one’s aspirations, regardless of outcome.

The hard reality is, surely, that for the likes of you and I, there is little choice other than to leave our fate, ultimately, in the hands of those great gentlemen at the hub of this world who employ our services. What is the point in worrying oneself too much about what could or could not have done to control the course one’s life took? Surely it is enough that the likes of you and I at least try to make our small contribution count for something true and worthy. And if some of us are prepared to sacrifice much in life in order to pursue such aspirations, surely that is in itself, whatever the outcome, cause for pride and contentment.

Ishiguro, Kazuo The remains of the day, Vintage International ed. 1993, p. 244

Categories
Behavior Being Literature Mythology

Sound like anybody you know?

The figure of the tyrant-monster is known to the mythologies, folk traditions, legends, and even nightmares of the world; and his characteristics are everywhere essentially the same. He is the hoarder of the general benefit. He is the monster avid for the greedy rights of “my and mine.” The havoc wrought by him is described in mythology and fairy tale as being universal throughout his domain. This may be no more than his household, his own tortured psyche, or the lives that he blights with the touch of his friendship and assistance; or it may amount to the extent of his civilization. The inflated ego of the tyrant is a curse to himself and his world–no matter how his affairs seem to prosper. Self-terrorized, fear-haunted, alert at every hand to meet and battle back the anticipated aggressions of his environment, which are primarily the reflections of the uncontrollable impulses of acquisition within himself, the giant of self-achieved independence is the world’s messenger of disaster, even through, in his mind, he may entertain himself with humane intentions. Wherever he sets his hand there is a cry (if not from the housetops, then–more miserably–within every heart): a cry for the redeeming hero, the carrier of the shining blade, whose blow, whose touch, whose existence will liberate the land.

-Campbell, Joseph. The hero with a thousand faces. Third edition. Joseph Campbell Foundation 2008. p.11

Categories
Behavior Being Experience Interwebs Tech

Long Hiatus

I have not posted to this blog in years. A combination of factors complicated my ability to gain access, but I cannot deny that the true cause is my tendency to procrastinate due to my compulsion to make things perfect. My underlying fear: that my expressive writing skills have declined from lack of practice.

It is true that my closet webserver, that formerly hosted this blog, grew so old that it could not be upgraded without a full wipe. It is true that I needed to be able to backup–and be confident that I could restore–the database and files before attempting any software upgrades. Without a backup/restoration protocol in place, potential new posts ran the risk of being lost. It is also true that the deadlines of my past job were so demanding that the last thing I wanted to do after meeting them was spend more time in front of a computer monitor attempting to draft coherent thoughts. Lastly, it is true that I have gotten out of the habit of reflecting on events in my life that would make for interesting blog posts.

Well, I want this to change. I miss journaling and I see now that the process of recording events required careful reflection. The act of reflecting often enhanced my appreciation of life. Of course, I would like this enhanced appreciation to resume.

So, I moved this blog to a dedicated cloud host where I no longer assume the burden of hardware upgrades so that I can maintain the support software (e.g. MySQL, PHP, Apache, WordPress) more easily with less risk. I’ve setup automated backup to a different cloud provider and verified my ability to perform a restoration if need be. And most significantly, I’m in between jobs right now with the intention of getting my life back in order on my terms; blogging is one of them.

Now that I am well-positioned to blog, I declare here that I will write and post at least three posts a week–no matter how mundane the subject–to get “back in the habit” of reflecting on life events by writing about them. Previous obstacles that have contributed to my procrastination are now gone. Here, I make a commitment to getting back in the practice, so I can hold myself accountable without excuses to hide behind.

Categories
Culture History Mythology Tech

Techno-worship, American-style

Likely more prescient in 2022 than it was when first published in 2011, Morris Berman cites the argument of British philosopher John Gray to support his (taboo) thesis that our unwavering, unquestioning commitment to technological progress has been a crucial factor in the downfall of American society. Whether by slow-burn or sudden death-knell, our end is certain because, as Americans, we are unwilling to abandon a myth.

Theories of progress, says Gray1, are not scientific hypotheses but rather myths, which—like the Christian myths of redemption and the Second Coming—answer to the human need for meaning. This is why we refuse to let them go, regardless of what the evidence might suggest. It is also why, in the United States, the commitment to technology goes much deeper than fueling consumerism, lubricating the socioeconomic system, and keeping a lid on class conflict. Without this belief system, Americans would have literally nothing, for it lies at the heart of the American Dream and endlessly vaunted American way of life. Strip away the illusion of unlimited growth and the country would suffer a collective nervous breakdown. (This is key to why Jimmy Carter had to go: he was pushing the limits of American psychological tolerance, asking a nation of addicts to confront their dependency and change course.) Globalization, along with neoliberalism, according to Gray, is merely the latest incarnation of this illusion, and its deep religious roots account for the ferocity of its adherents, even after the crash of 2008 gave the lie to the notion of unlimited development through the free market economy. We want to believe that the future will be better than the past, but there isn’t a shred of evidence to back this up. In particular, as I shall discuss below, scientific progress doesn’t translate into moral progress; one could reasonably argue that just the opposite is the case. Truth be told, concludes Gray, we are even more superstitious than our medieval forebears; we just don’t recognize it. Nor is it likely that we shall abandon these beliefs. It’s utopia or bust, even if the odds are heavily weighted toward bust.

Berman M., Why America Failed: the roots of imperial decline, 2011/2014, pp. 82-83 quoting Gray, J., Black Mass, New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2007

Categories
History Literature Philosophy

Kaleidosope

Concerning the major players involved in shaping the events during the first month of World War I (August 1914), Barbara W. Tuchman wrote in the prelude to the book’s list of sources:

They seemed to have known, while they lived it, that like the French Revolution, the First World War was one of the great convolutions of history, and each felt the hand of history heavily on his own shoulder.  When it was over, despite courage, skill, and sacrifice, the war they had fought proved to have been, on the whole, a monument of failure, tragedy and disillusion.  It had not led to a better world.  Men who had taken part at the command level, political and military, felt driven to explain their decisions and actions.  Men who had fallen from high command, whether for cause or as scapegoats—and these included most of the commanders of August—wrote their private justifications. As each account appeared, inevitably shifting responsibility or blame to someone else, another was provoked.

With much insight, she elucidates through metaphor the goal of the historian who

…gropes his way trying to recapture the truth of past events and find out “what really happened.” He discovers that truth is subjective and separate, made up of little bits seen, experienced and recorded by different people. It’s like the design seen through a kaleidoscope; when the cylinder is shaken the countless colored fragments form a new picture. Yet they are the same fragments that made a different picture a moment earlier.

Tuchman, Barbara W., The Guns of August, 1962, The Random House Publishing Group, First Presidio Press Mass Market edition, p. 525.
Categories
Culture Libertad! Literature

Life and Debt

I dare not comment on David Graeber’s monumental anthropological investigation into the role of debt in human relations in Debt: The First 5,000 Years. Any attempt by this hard sciences guy would almost certainly prove embarrassing. My motivation for reading the 400 page text (plus 62 pages of end notes) stems from a desire to understand the axioms that underlie modern concepts of indebtedness and money. Perhaps my recent interest in this subject is a natural consequence of middle age. Or maybe my heightened curiosity manifested from living in a social system whose very existence seems more precarious with each passing day.

What exactly is money anyway? What is a debt? How did these ideas come about and why do we adhere to them? Can communities function without monetary exchange? Graeber provides compelling answers to these questions by connecting a myriad of observations from cultures around the world throughout history. Connections that can explain universal, recurring trends such as the cycle of slavery to mine metals to produce coins to pay soldiers (who, in turn, captured more slaves). This “slavery-coinage-military complex” prevailed in the Axial Age (800 BC – 600 AD) in Europe, India and China that coincided with great unrest in each. If you are a human being living on planet Earth, you should read this book. The extended quote below from the last chapter provides an apt summary:

If this book has shown anything, it’s exactly how much violence it has taken, over the course of human history, to bring us to a situation where it’s even possible to imagine that that’s what life is really about. Especially when one considers how much of our own daily experience flies directly in the face of it.  As I’ve emphasized, communism may be the foundation of all human relations—that communism that, in our own daily life, manifests itself above all in what we call “love”—but there’s always some sort of system of exchange, and usually, a system of hierarchy built on top of it.  These systems of exchange can take an endless variety of forms, many perfectly innocuous.  Still, what we are speaking of here is a very particular type of exchange, founded on precise calculation.  As I pointed out in the very beginning: the difference between owing someone a favor and owing someone a debt is that the amount of a debt can be precisely calculated.  Calculation demands equivalence.  And such equivalence—especially when it involves equivalence between human beings (and it always seems to start that way, because at first, human beings are always the ultimate values)—only seems to occur when people have been forcibly severed from their contexts, so much so that they can be treated as identical to something else, as in: “seven martin skins and twelve large silver rings for the return of your captured brother,” “one of your three daughters as surety for this loan of one hundred and fifty bushels of grain.”…

This in turn leads to that great embarrassing fact that haunts all attempts to represent the market as the highest form of human freedom: that historically, impersonal, commercial markets originate in theft. More than anything else, the endless recitation of the myth of barter, employed much like an incantation, is the economists’ way of exorcising this uncomfortable truth. But even a moment’s reflection makes it obvious. Who was the first man to look at a house full of objects and immediately assess them only in terms of what he could get for them in the market? Surely, he can only have been a thief. Burglars, marauding soldiers, then perhaps debt collectors, were the first to see the world this way. It was only in the hands of soldiers, fresh from looting towns and cities, that chunks of gold or silver—melted down, in most cases, from some heirloom treasure, that like the Kashmiri gods, or Aztec breastplates, or Babylonian women’s ankle bracelets, was both a work of art and a little compendium of history—could become simple, uniform bits of currency, with no history, valuable precisely for their lack of history, because they could be accepted anywhere, no questions asked. And it continues to be true. Any system that reduces the world to numbers can only be held in place by weapons, whether these are swords and clubs, or, nowadays, “smart bombs” from unmanned drones.

It can also only operate by continually converting love into debt. I know my use of the word “love” here is even more provocative, in its own way, than “communism.” Still, it’s important to hammer the point home. Just as markets, when allowed to drift entirely free from their violent origins, invariably begin to grow into something different, into networks of honor, trust and mutual connectedness, so does the maintenance of systems of coercion constantly do the opposite: turn the products of human cooperation, creativity, devotion, love, and trust back into numbers once again.

Graeber, David.  Debt: the first 5,000 years.  Melville House 2014. pp 386-387

A bit further down, Graeber explains a false, but ubiquitous, idea that by simply being alive we are in debt–a debt so great that we can never even hope to repay:

It’s hardly surprising that the end result, historically, is to see our life itself as something we hold on false premises, a loan long since overdue, and therefore, to see existence itself as criminal.  Insofar as there’s a real crime here, though, it’s fraud. The very premise is fraudulent.  What could possibly be more presumptuous, or more ridiculous, than to think it would be possible to negotiate with the grounds of one’s existence?  Of course it isn’t.  Insofar as it is indeed possible to come into any sort of relation with the Absolute, we are confronting a principle that exists outside of time, or human-scale time, entirely; therefore, as medieval theologians correctly recognized, when dealing with the Absolute, there can be no such thing as debt.”

Graeber, David. Debt: the first 5,000 years.  Melville House 2014. p 387.

Below, Graeber captures the potential paradox that I have felt–but have not been able to articulate–that has long fueled my contempt for the rampant materialism and iniquity that so plagues our modern age, especially in post-WWII United States. Bank-imposed FICA scores come to mind here:

For me, this is exactly what’s so pernicious about the morality of debt: the way that financial imperatives constantly try to reduce us all, despite ourselves, to the equivalent of pillagers, eyeing the world simply for what can be turned into money–and then tell us that it’s only those who are willing to see the world as pillagers who deserve access to the resources required to pursue anything in life other than money.

Graeber, David. Debt: the first 5,000 years.  Melville House 2014. pp 389-390

Though Graeber’s aim in Debt was not to offer “concrete proposals” for change, the last line of the text is the crucial take away for this 21st century malcontent:

What sorts of promises might genuinely free men and women make to one another? At this point, we can’t even say. It’s more a question of how we can get to a place that will allow us to find out. And the first step in that journey, in turn, is to accept that in the largest scheme of things, just as no one has the right to tell us our true value, no one has the right to tell us what we truly owe.

Graeber, David. Debt: the first 5,000 years. Melville House 2014, p 391.

Categories
Experience

A Different Kind of Meditation

I’m no master meditator. How do I know this? I’m still trying to figure out “what I’m supposed to get out of it.” Experienced folks will likely tell you that mine is the wrong attitude. They are probably right. The quote below contrasts the mindful awareness approach against a less-known “centering prayer” method.

But there is one very significant difference. In classic awareness meditation, the watcher would stay keenly tuned to the passing parade overhead, watching each boat as it emerged into view, sent its wake rippling through the waters, and then passed out of sight. But in Centering Prayer the diver simply wakes up to discover that somehow he’s managed to sleepwalk into the hold of one of those boats; at which point he simply climbs off and swims back down to his rock. There is no requirement for sustained observing consciousness, merely for prompt action when one discovers oneself “caught out”.

Because in most schools mediation is seen as virtually synonymous with clarity of mind and a strong “I am here” presence, it is to the considerable horror of some practitioners on these more traditional paths that Centering Prayer seems to go sailing right past these core prerequisites for either single-pointed attention or a sustained witnessing presence. Christian Mediation’s founding father, John Main, echoes the traditional wisdom when he insists that it is absolutely essential to keep saying the mantra as a touchstone for attention. To fail to do so, he says, leads to a state that he calls “pernicious peace.” In attempting to describe this state, he, too, is drawn to the metaphor of boats on a river. As he sees it, meditation is something like rowing a boat across a river; the goal is to get to the other side. Partway across the river, the midday sun may feel warm and gentle, and the temptation is strong to pull in the oars and bask in the sun. While the consequent experience is pleasurable, the net result is that you simply float downstream. Getting to the other side requires that you keep pulling steadily on the oar, which for Main means the steady repetition of mantra.


Bourgeault, Cynthia. Centering prayer and Inner awakening, pp. 114-155. Cowley Publishing, 2004.