Night of the Feeling Dead

For Halloween this year, I will be dressed as a philosophical zombie (p-zombie). By any measure it is the easiest costume, seeing as p-zombies are by definition behaviourally and hence sartorially indistinguishable from your garden variety Homo sapiens. But they are arguably the scariest of monsters as well. The parochialism of conscious beings leads them to consider only other conscious beings as suitable for entering into moral relations with, if that (although Shaun of the Dead provides a counterexample, with Shaun playing PlayStation games with zombie Ed). And given that our basis for believing in other minds is merely pragmatic, inductive faith, even the simple act of contemplating the possibility of p-zombies is sufficient to throw doubt on the rest of humanity. Other people would seem uncanny. It would be as if a genocide had been conducted stealthily in the heads of everyone else. All whom we love would be no more. (Of course some, like horror writer Thomas Ligotti, would consider the existence of consciousness to be the horrifying fact, but I venture it would be way more horrifying for those consciousnesses if other humans weren't conscious.)

Am-ing Myself

Triumphantly and anti-grammatically supreme I'll speak of 'am-ing myself'. I'll have stated a philosophy in just two words. - Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

This is the time of the year when people are too busy for anything other than are-ing themselves. All dreams of being someone else are put aside for the moment, and the price of being oneself must be paid before any new purchases made. We aren't are-ing ourselves; we are merely ourselves. Let us be ourselves then, so that we may better are ourselves when the time comes.

The Origin of Cognition in the Breakdown of the Caffeinated Mind

Ah, coffee. The sine qua non of modernity. And not merely the opium of the masses either. Alfréd Rényi once said, "A mathematician is a machine for turning coffee into theorems." Does coffee make me think better, or does it just make me think I'm thinking better? It feels like the former. Although, I hear a voice in my head asking, "And how would it feel if it was the latter, pray tell?"

Your Friendly Neighbourhood Philosopher

Deleuze and Guattari (D&G) note that the word "philo-sopher" comes from the Greek for "friend of wisdom". But how would philosophers fare as friends of people? In befriending a philosopher, would one also come closer to becoming friends with wisdom?

What criteria would we adopt in choosing philosophers as friends? The quality of their ideas or their writing? Their personalities or even their actual track record as friends to others? All valid considerations. Perhaps we shouldn't isolate any of these variables, and must instead treat each philosopher as a whole, as a person, which is surely what friendship demands of us. If, as Aristotle says, the best life is one engaged in reason, and true friendship is that in which persons of similar character exercise their virtues together, then philosophers are uniquely suited for friendship. These, then, are my choices in chronological order.

Consider the Hydra

The hydra (ὕδρα) is a polycephalic reptile native to Lake Lerna in Greece. The number of heads common to this species has been variously reported as five, seven, nine, or a hundred (the last known sighting of a hydra occurred more than three milennia ago, by a certain Heracles (a notable wildlife enthusiast of the day) so any knowledge we have of this creature has suffered from the Chinese whispers of time). Nonetheless, all accounts agree that the hydra regrows two heads for each one cut off, and has poisonous breath and blood.

Due to the overcompensatory nature of its response to trauma, Nassim Taleb has elected the hydra as the symbolic beast of antifragility. It roams the sands of Extremistan indifferent to danger, impervious to harm. The one known Black Swan for the hydra is cauterisation, so it seems the hydra has no natural predators. Yet it is not even sure that the hydra will survive the Blank Swan of my writing.

The Neo-Amazons of New Amazon

I am Erodotus, the Mad Historian. No ears will any longer take in the warnings I give. Which are the dreams, my nights or my days? The nights are haunted by visions of civilisations long ruined, where men spoke tongues understood by none today, save one. In the day I struggle so to find an audience for my words, I might as well be speaking an incomprehensible tongue. They are all asleep, in the day as in the night, delving into the same pasts I see, addicted to those pasts as to those potions they take to prolong their dreams. There are those who dwell in the past to hide from the present, and those who search unfathomable pasts for answers, both equally mad. Yet the healers think me mad! Would that I had known it would come to this.

But first...

Legend has it that the peoples of New Amazon were visited by two plagues which shaped their present race, and are doomed to be scourged by another that will prove their end. The first of these was a pox which took all their menfolk, yet left the women untouched bar their grief. Their treasuries possessed stores of seed with which to sire new young; but any boys born fell ill with the same pox and did not last long. But the women knew not despair, for their cities were high in Science. They attempted to find cures for that dread disease, but all manner of elixir, herbal or alchemical, proved futile. The women then turned their efforts to finding a way to bear children without men, at which task they succeeded by a method (involving two women) still used in the present day.

Thinking en Passant

I read an interview of a chess hustler in New York expounding on his personal philosophy. It was certainly an interesting interview with an unusual character. His theories struck me with a few thoughts. But perhaps a disclaimer and aside first.

I sucked at chess for a child of my intelligence. I used to play against the computer in primary school. I knew the rules, sure, and the goal of the game as well, but I could never figure out how to string them together. My eyes saw material and nothing else, even though the software had fancy features to help you track legal moves, fields of influence, and so on. I saw only the surface level, playing it like a Democritean atomist (I nearly said reductionist, but that would be false because I saw nothing to reduce). Barren of abstractions, the chessboard is a mere particle accelerator, one governed by a physics which permits only annihilation, not transmutation (except the occasional promoted pawn).