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Self and World

Self and World (a phenomenological excursus)

            When I regain the day, upon awakening, the mode of reality into which I am extended shifts. I had been asleep, traveling within the world of dreams, for the most part autonomic in orientation; the involuntary communication of states of bodily function. We do not know precisely the ratio amongst dreams of anxiety, of neurosis, and those simple ‘public service’ announcements that prevent me from minor midnight mishap, but what is clear is that in each genre of dream, hyperbole, metaphor, and desire are employed to get the message across. The ‘reality’ of dreams is not entirely unreal, since it borrows heavily from my waking experiences with real others alive to our shared world, but due to their unshared and unshareable character, dreams lack the sociality of the social which our daily interactions with those same others possess. Though I may sometimes discover a limited volition within the dream-sequence, I am never ‘in control’ of the space of action itself. In this, dreams also mimic the wide-awake reality; the world at large is as well mostly beyond my individual control. Yet neither are dreams irreal, the mode of reality befitting the vision. Instead, it is their surreality that, upon awakening, either shocks or amuses us. The most important factor for any model of reality is that the distinctions between its modes must be quite significant. For realities, by their nature and definition, cannot share their selfsame presence.

            In experiencing a vision, for instance, I depart from the mutually shared social reality of my contemporaries. This irreality is sudden, prompting Kierkegaard to note that it is often received by us as a form of evil. Yet the unplanned and unexpected irruption of the Nothing or perhaps only the non-rational is, as a phenomenological event, no different in its structure than that of the phantasm, wherein we consciously plan for ‘projects of action’. My responses to it are inverted, as I can only react consciously to the irreal, rather than plan for it and thus expect it, but the elements of the ‘interaction’ do not differ from any other self-world experience that may come my way. In waking, social reality too I find that I am oft only reacting to others’ actions rather than initiating my own before being overtaken by events local or general. The chief difference demarcating the irreal from the real is that the former attempts a waking dream. The vision is the middle ground between dreaming and waking, between fantasy and reality. As Rod Serling might have it, ‘it lies between the pit of man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge’. This is perhaps too strong a characterization of the vision proper, but apt enough for a theatrical version thereof. Yet within this eloquent line does lie the sense that radically other forms of knowing present to us a challenging choice: do we take them into ourselves and thus become somewhat different than our human fellows, or do we leap into their fire and thus potentially lose our humanity entire?

            If an excursus into the ‘twilight zone’ of irreality is not always to our advantage, we do maintain an anchor out to the windward cast of the realismus, where, appropriately, the sensus communis of normative social life rules the day. We have no such access when dreaming, and must first awaken to once again partake in the world as we know it to have been, and as we  assume it shall continue to be. The world as a worlding being provides this safer succor to our mortal self. It does not need us, and thus is able to nurture our finite beings with the goal understood to be itself a confrontation with both tradition, on the one hand, and finitudinal futurity, on the other. Neither dreams nor visions have either of these goals, nor are such recognizable when we are ourselves within their odd, even oddball, embrace. The waking dream of the vision might appear to be shared and thence shareable, but in fact the visionary finds that he must retreat from the irreal source of wisdom in order to share it with others. This is why the descent from the mountaintop is a near universal feature of the cosmogony of morality, for instance. From Moses to Zarathustra, the visionary, as a vehicle for the new sociality and as a midwife for the world to come, cannot remain in the space of the vision itself. Dreams, by contrast, present no radically liminal landscape, for each night everyone enters into her own version thereof, and upon awakening, returns to the collective consciousness of both symbolic forms and behavioral norms.

            This is the ‘lifeworld’ of Schutz. It implies, without specific judgment, that neither do visions nor dreams possess that which animates conscious being; life itself. As Lennon sang, ‘it is not living’, referring to dreams in what was arguably the most important song of the 1960s, simply taken as creating a break from the going-rate. Given that ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’ (1966) was used as the sonic backdrop to a crucial moment in the series Madmen, marking the advent of the new social reality of the then youthful baby-boom, we are thrown into both a cultural maelstrom as well as a pop-culture event. Born in that same year, I had no conscious experience thereof, even though I was alive therein. And this distinction too is of import, because lived experience must first be in possession of a modicum of rational consciousness, the very thing generally absent in both dreams and visions. The lifeworld enumerates the structures of shared consciousness, including the conscience, self-consciousness, and self-understanding. The lifeworld thus has its ‘personal’ side, if you will, wherein I, as a reflective agent in the world, come face to face with my ownmost being as a social character. The Husserlian might protest that the lifeworld is a model only for the phenomenological psychology of hyletic reality alone, but though this is a reasonable criticism which brings our attention toward not abusing the language of phenomenology, it is not as germane when we as well become aware that eidetic structures must, if they are to themselves animate the ‘collective consciousness’ without recourse to mythos, remain as part of the scientifically irreal. In ‘On Multiple Realities’ (1953), Schutz implies that scientific reality is in fact the practical means by which cross-cultural communication can occur in reality at all. Phenomenology, when examining the structures of consciousness rather than those of the lifeworld, is the irreal version of science.

            Within the lifeworld, I am presented with two agentive options: the social reality of my peers and contemporaries, and the social world of humanity as a whole. I take the former as a given, and also take that others will do the same, on our mutual behalf. I do not question the ‘whys’ of the day-to-day, but rather duly perform them, without much conscious effort, and the affront I take when others do not live up to the standards of the day reminds me that this form of agency, acting in the social reality, is both a performance and does require some effort after all. Most of the tension in today’s political life emanates from the emerging sense that a growing number of these others are unwilling or unable to ‘do their part’ in upholding the performance-based version of the social world. If they refuse to do so, or recuse themselves from this shared effort in some other manner, they move from simply being an ‘other-like-myself’ to a more authentic otherness, and thus may constitute a threat to the reality of the lifeworld itself. Through this possibility, I discover that in fact social reality is not a given, since it requires daily upkeep. Part of that work is expressed in me being able to take this reality as a given, which mirrors the selfhood about which I too am required to make certain assumptions. None of this, however, touches the question of ‘existence’, which is contiguous with other kinds of ‘why’ questions that the normative person leaves for the philosopher. Within the phenomenology that seeks to understand the structures of consciousness itself, a kind of ‘Kantian’ sensibility is present. But in social reality, we are not Kantians but rather Jamesians; wholly pragmatic in outlook and aware of the general rubric that only the outcome matters.

            It is not quite the same stance that I bring to the social world, which, in contrast with social reality, includes the past, as well as something of the sense of a general future, within its phenomenological ambit. History is our chief source of what has been in relation to the career of our species. Archaeology and paleoanthropology extend the technical and temporal reach of history, but they neither alter its mandate nor its scope. Here, instead of simply living out the day in a calculated indifference to its ‘how’ – why these norms instead of others, for instance – I can delve into their history, their own careers, and the politics presented in other times and places that eventually combined to bring us to where we are right now. The social world does not attempt to examine itself as an ontological form, but it also does not simply shrug off any epistemic analysis. The discourses of the sciences too are available in the social world, whereas once again in social reality they are sloughed off as areas for the specialist alone. It is clear, then, that on any given day, I can cross from social reality into the social world more widely, precisely in order to explain, at least to myself, why and how the former functions the way it does. Indeed, if I am a cultural newcomer, I must make this crossing not only on a daily basis, but many times per day. Schutz’s ‘The Stranger’, (1944), remains the most exacting, and even poignant, account of this challenging dynamic. Here, I am presented with the ultimate problem of distinguishing what constitutes social reality for my new hosts, and am flummoxed by the realization that social ‘reality’ is itself plural in nature via human culture itself. This is why it is scientific reality which is the only generalizable form. Dreams, phantasms, visions, and most vexingly, even wide-awake social reality are not portable in any ultimate sense. All the more so the altered realities of the addict or the mentally ill cannot provide the species with any kind of useable works in view of the future. For it is specifically Dasein’s future-orientedness that both allows me to shore up the waking reality with which I am most familiar, as well as take occasional forays into the more aware and reflective space of the social world.

            But in order to do so, I must myself maintain the rational consciousness which not only befits social reality but as well reproduces it. This dynamic, between reproduction and reflection, between action and contemplation, and between the historical act and the aesthetic work, compels me to attend to its inherent tension: without respect of its origins, social reality’s primary goal is to simply get through each day, just as my own goal is the same. This goal can conflict with any sense that I should more deeply understand why I have this goal in the first place. To what end, I might ask, is the effort expended in and for mundane life? What is the ‘me’ that is offered such solace in the routine, the otiose, and the repetitive? And why do I often prefer this version of myself over against the human being possessed of, and indeed, created by, the confluence of reason and imagination and given an existential hold upon temporality through both memory and anticipation? At first, this appears a pressing issue: social reality neither requires nor encourages reflective or critical thought. The social world contains the discourses of both, but it is still up to me to both access them and thence put them to living use. If I take a second glance at my predicament, I realize that it is not quite as tense and dire as it seems. In fact, even in daily life, there are times when I have to reflect upon my actions. Very often it is through the presence of others which cautions me to take a step away from action, and thereby enter into a more contemplative stance. When this does occur, I find myself able to question more generally the reality of my hearth. I need not become a philosopher to do the work necessary to engender self-examination with a view to attaining a mature self-understanding. I need not even alter social reality to engage in this species-essence project. I only need to alter my own sensibility which I usually bring to it.

            And this is precisely where the perspective of all the generally available realities come into play. I may be inspired by a vision, enlightened by a dream, shuttered by a passing addiction, relieved of a mental illness, become learned and rational through the sciences, or take on the guise of the future within the phantasm. Social reality does itself engage, willingly or no, with these other six forms, all of which may be found within the combination of the social world and that which abruptly breaks in upon it, emanating from some lesser known function of consciousness itself. When I do gain the perspective of multiple realities, I find that both my self and my being within the world’s worlding of itself become more adeptly apt and more deeply alive.  For the selfhood of the world rests in its ability to go its own way, apart from my intents or desires. Just so, any authentic worldliness that I accrue to myself, living within the landscape of both a shared and waking social reverie, must do the same.

            G.V. Loewen is the author of over 60 books, and was professor of the interdisciplinary human sciences for over two decades.

Salem and Jerusalem

Salem and Jerusalem (Seek and Ye Shall Find)

            The sense of pursuing something at all costs is reflective of the will to life. In principle, we are beings who are limited by our form of Being. Even if we have attempted to divide the One and the many, placing the former either in a superior space which is yet life, though beyond itself, or by imagining that we are more deeply and fully part of that same Being, and thus this experience of life is but partial and transitory, we are still confronted by the challenge of living that life as a being incomplete. This is such a daunting prospect for the individual and for the community alike, that the intrusion of the One is historically seen as a regular feature of human existence. Now, whether or not this is truly an ‘intrusion’, irruptive and thus posing as irreal in space and time, or it is merely a construction, can only be judged from without. Modernity does not in general cleave to the conception of the One, for it has firmly parked this sensibility in non-human forms, trading the infinite for the indefinite. So, when we review specific historical events or even moods, we today gaze with both disdain and astonishment, that our ancestors could be so moved to have done what they did at the time in question.

            Our two metaphors, one of the witch-hunt and one of the crusade, closely related as they are but trending off in opposite directions – the former toward the person and thence the personal, the latter outward to the world and thence the cultural – will serve us both historically and analytically. Salem is synonymous with paranoia, local politics, Puritanism, misogyny but above all else, the abreaction against the abnormative. In Foucauldian mode, Salem is an exercise in small scale biopower. For pioneer settlers, faced as they were with an unending wilderness populated by superior numbers of indigenous peoples, unmarried childless women were an unaffordable luxury. Whatever the hysteria of charges against these women might have been in the minds of both their peers and their leaders, the basic transgression was of the most basic reproductive rule, made extreme by the circumstances. Salem is with us today in the anti-abortion movement, mainly helmed by women, and in the anti-gay movement. Anyone who opts out of the reproductive cycle cannot entirely be trusted not to do the same with that of production-consumption. Indeed, one might well suggest that child-free couples and gay persons are only tolerated because their lack of childcare duties allows them to be more productive in their workplaces, and this in turn affords them more economic power in the marketplace. If we take this tack, it is merely a question of balancing role-players: how many ‘breeders’ does one need and how many hyper-consumers, how many workaholics and how many stay-at-home caretakers? In this mode of analysis, biopower is diffused along the lines of social role expectation.

            But Salem is also an outlook. It casts a profound aspersion upon those who seek to live their lack of oneness outside of the basic social norms. Just so, if the One is lost to that same contemporary life, it can only be approximated in a society that heeds fairly strictly the norms of its organicity. Society can only be made into community in this manner. The former is too abstract a oneness; I cannot experience it directly. But the latter gives me something I can actually feel in my day-to-day rounds. I am part of something larger than myself; a community not of like minds but of like actions and inactions, and through these I express my own willing charity and even good-naturedness interacting with these small scale others. This is the ‘othership’, which partakes only in the Cartesian sense of ‘here is another like myself; they are not me but I could be them’. Here, I am one of them and hence approximate the One with them, but only with them. But to those who depart from this most basic form of otherness, while at the same time potentially adding to the difficulty of both social reproduction and economic growth, I am disagreeable. In salemic times, I am hard-pressed to extend my best self and my otherwise good-naturedness in all directions at once.

            This is also key: that there are now a multitude of different callers upon my good will, not just those with alternative sexualities or reproductive sensibilities, but those hailing from a myriad of diverse cultures, who are at once rivals and allies. Globalism is not the same as cosmopolitanism. Acceptance does not equal tolerance, and neither take the place of understanding. Salem itself was so small a group that there could be no deviation, even numerically, between what society was and what was community. Here, acceptance, tolerance and understanding must be the same thing, for the Puritans found themselves living in an organic culture set down into mechanical conditions. In Durkheimian mode, the colonies were a contradiction in organizational terms. When one’s culture and one’s conditions are askew, internal scrutiny becomes the most intense. Everyone must do their part. Beyond this, the original charges against the sectarians, the very reason they fled Europe, included dealings in the occult; they were themselves, by doctrinaire old-world standards, devil-worshippers. To then have even a hint of such within their own exiled and pariah communities would have been too much to bear. At the same time, marriages of convenience always break asunder after the most critical moment has passed. Those brought together by mutual loss and mourning struggle to find their way as a new unit once the much-vaunted ‘new life’ is attained. Wartime allies, such as the Western powers and the Soviet Union in 1945, retreat into their respective geopolitical corners. And communities who have been forced out of one place undergo internecine purges once a safe refuge is discovered. Salem was this purge, this divorce, this political realignment. It was largely symbolic in that it scapegoated a few; anything more widespread would have wiped out the entire affair.

            Salem as metaphor is about internal purity, but Jerusalem is about purifying the wider world based upon the already attained purity of the internal Oneness. Jerusalem, as the goal of an externalizing crusade, represents a regaining and thence grounding, just as Salem might be seen as a finding and thence a re-grounding in a mimesis of the autochthonous. Salem is the cosmogony reiterated, Jerusalem the cosmology created, but they are two side of the same historical coin. It is not simply about xenophobia let alone ideology. The fear of otherness is a fear that the self is not able to maintain itself. My homophobia speaks to my own sexual doubts. I may not even be attracted to other men but I will always find some women unattractive. My ethnocentrism expresses a similar skepticism: there are many things within my own culture of birth that I abhor. One sure-fire way of overcoming these doubts is to project them onto others; not so differently do I ‘transfer’ my neurotic symptoms onto significant others, endangering the intimacy of the othership which I hold so dear. A culture that cannot afford to fight amongst itself is best prepared to wage war on another. The historic crusades were an example of this ‘coming together in the face of a common enemy without’. Unlike the Columbian Conquest, which was a competition amongst developing nations who needed the leverage new markets and new resources would bring them, the Crusades engendered a singular goal: the retrieval of the origin of life itself.

            If Salem had recreated life, that of the culture and that of the faith, Jerusalem remained the font of both. Only one crusade was actually militarily successful, but this is immaterial to the force of the symbolic content present in the idea of Oneness and how to merge once again with it. In our outsized cosmology, to witness the birth of the current installment of the universe is seemingly a benign crusade. The otherness in the way is itself a mere happenstance; it could have been any different culture, or even a very similar one – indeed, in fact it was, given religion, lifeway, subsistence pattern and economy, gender relations and many more characteristics –  which presently occupies the promised landscape; it is simply the idea that I am not within that space, that of creation, that of all the force which opposes death. If Salem means to confront the mortality of the community emanating from within its own bounds, its own force occurs outside of the space of origins. The farther one travelled away from this center, the more at risk one was to encounter the dissenter, for who out here could have heard of the center of life, dwelling at such a distance from it? Salem is also thus a genuflective expression of Jerusalem, an orison directed back toward the center from the uttermost margins, which the new American colonies would certainly have qualified as. Yet Europe, by the High Medieval period, could well have seen itself as a margin, flung out in a patchwork of Christian diasporas, only tenuously tethered to the Levant, facing out upon, at that time, an unknown ocean of counter-being. It is not a coincidence that Europe turned back before turning forward, into its own imagined womb before out into the unimaginable world.

            It is transparently clear that both Salem and Jerusalem are with us yet. In all internal examinations, from the petty McCarthyisms of a political purge to the more profound disinfectants of normative salute, the martinette strutting in the first stage, but the marionette the very goal of the second, the salemic jingo speaks its spiel. If in times of relative lack of success in enforcing the oneness upon its own society, then at the cultural level, there will be a call to exogamous arms. The sense that there lies in wait a common enemy, ready to destroy us if we do not ‘come together as one’, surely exerts a powerful suasion. But this aspect of the dual metaphors is old hat. If we are to more fully comprehend the oft-oscillating historical dynamic involving Salem and Jerusalem we would do better to consider their relationship to the will to life as a whole. For one could live on in an altered culture; humanity is in fact not that diverse. No, the truer sticking point is not cultural difference, but that I myself am not the one who can know oneness, who can relive the creation, who is divorced from Being. That some other culture attained the purity of the central mimesis, regained the exacting proximity to the authentic center, the Mecca, the Mt. Fuji, the Ararat, the Mount Meru and so on. To be apart from that ultimate and death-defying success is to be committed to a truncated life. To be only adopted, or yet co-opted, into the other’s existential apex is to lose my ontological status as a being of Being. This is the deeper reason why some refer to those who flout the norms as being ‘existential threats’, whether directed at those of the interior or of the exterior.

            Without the center I am absented from the One. I can no longer experience the uniquely plural personhood of beings because I do not have any sure basis of comparison; Being is absent. This modern condition would be tolerable if no other human being yet sought Being through either a Salem or a Jerusalem, but alas we have as a species not matured to the point wherein the center can be redefined as within each human life; where the Being of beings resides only in that same existential arc that defines our collective finitude.

            G.V. Loewen is the author of over 60 books, and was professor of the interdisciplinary human sciences for over two decades.

The Future is Plastic

The Future is Plastic (Sculpting Fluid Change)

            With the major oil-producing nations shying away from a variety of bans on plastic use and waste, given that the petrochemical industry is facing a shortage of expanding commodity markets and such countries as India, Iran, and Russia reserve their ‘right to develop’; with microplastics in water supplies, gigantic festoons of plastic littering the remote oceans, plastic detritus on the beaches – to the point that certain crustaceans are now using plastic bottle caps and the like as makeshift ‘shells’; inventive creatures they must be – and with plastic recycling losing its trendiness, the bit character in The Graduate (1967) may have said more than he meant, in counseling the young Dustin Hoffman about the most promising careers: “The future (really) is plastic!”. This film, meant as comedy but in fact a tragedy – the culminating scenes have Hoffman playing Harold Lloyd in an updated chase sequence borrowed wholly from Girl Shy (1924), but the happy ending of Lloyd’s daredevil antics is not repeated in the more recent effort – reminds one of nothing other than the contrast between plastic items themselves, brightly colored, whimsical, toy-like, and their lingering effect upon the environment. Indeed, ‘malingering’ might be the more apt term, given their notoriously long half-lives.

            But the conception of plastic predates the actual material invention, seen yet in interwar period ‘Bakelite’ and other like artifacts as varied as vintage poker chips, early electric shavers, toothbrushes, and shoe-horns, to name a few. Plastik in German is ‘sculpture’, as in the art form. And the ability to mold this new liquid polymer-like substance into any possible shape desired could only accrue to itself the same name, Anglicized but carrying the same methodic meaning. Sculpted plastic did itself appear in the galleries soon after the war, taking its place among the modernist movement, yet also pushing it along toward pop art. Plastic as a substance is seemingly as value-neutral as it is a conception. The latter connotes change, not permanence, so there is an irony of contrast between the idea and the product, given once again the fact that plastic is so difficult to break down and few organisms in nature have, so to speak, the guts to do so. Certainly, we humans appear to lack them, as it is far more convenient to make like the crab and turn away from the world, sheltering under our very much artificial shells.

            Even so, the film’s enduring epigram also must be taken much more literally than a general suggestion to get a job in a specific and growing industry. The future is, by definition, plastic; fluid, as yet unformed, to be molded, the very outcome of present-day change which in turn is the future’s ownmost harbinger. The littoral litter of actual plastic objects and their shards and fragments does nothing to alter this profoundly existential condition. Yes, unless the world does itself become uninhabitable due to it’s becoming inundated with things made of plastic. It is not a momentary irony after all, this contrast between the conception and the object, the idea and the product, the meaningful word and passing thing. But we must ask, is the nascent drive to cleanse the earth of these cast-off remnants transmuting into gaily Lovecraftian remanants – one can imagine that Cthulhu itself, rising from the ocean depths, is after all made up of a million tons of plastic waste held together with giant fish nets – simply a matter of rehabilitating the health of the ecosystem or does it carry some other, more essential sentiment, within it?

            The idea of the future is, oddly, itself a recent invention. For the Greeks, the future was to be as tragic as the fates of the young would-be lovers in the Hoffman film, escaped from their normative prisons, yes, but then realizing, in the final frames, that they had now come face to face with an utterly unknown – and for them, seated side by side at the very back of a bus, just as unknowable – time to come. There is no being-ahead in the Greek mythos, of course, but during the transition toward logos, the mythic temporality was shed before ever was the mythic sensibility. The past was venerated, the present deplored, the future dreaded. Speaking of rehabilitation, the first light that shone from a future point appears in the resurrection of the Christian mythos; it speaks of a future that is better than what has been. This is an impressive volte face given the druthers of classical thought, and represents, through the midwifery of the Hebrews, a re-uptake of Egyptian thought concerning both personal destiny and the structure of the afterlife more generally. Perhaps paradoxically, the idea of a future being as well as world is actually an older sensibility than is the idea of decay and the overall running down of things. The future as a conception comes from the past as an actuality. What is more truly resurrected is thus not a particular culture hero but rather an entire outlook, a worldview that seeks to overcome both the torpor of the present and the ultimate breakdown of the future.

            This novel vantage presents to itself an equally unexplored panorama. That the Greeks maintained vestiges of their older temporality, a cycle in which the usual linear histories are inverted – the past was somehow ahead of them and thus could be known; this is dramatized in some of the most famous literary sequences that have survived from this period, such as those that speak of ‘predestination’ in Oedipus Rex or Antigone, while the future was ‘behind’ them and was thus unknown to the present – tells us of their abject fear of the future as a looming historical space. The ‘horror vacui’ of their Geometric period in sculpture was, for the Greeks, seemingly imported into a wider worldview. Blank space, either on the surfaces of clay vessels or in the temporal imagination, could neither be condoned nor countenanced. There is a residue of this even in our present-day imagination, since the future ‘itself’ has not changed and can itself never be present for us. Toffler’s Future Shock (1970) is a well-known popular attempt to essentially bring the future into the present, filling up the otherwise void spaces with its abrupt presence. The author speaks of urban renewal projects, where in a short space of time the entire landscape has been transformed. This is the general character of city life, in one sense, and it is no coincidence that temples remain the most enduring structures in these otherwise fluid and very much plastic spaces. Temples stand not because of their vintage if oft warmed-over architectural styles, but rather due to the worldview they represent and the morality they express, both of which are not only archaic to capital and to modernity more widely, but as well, contradict them.

            Their contrary character mimics the temporal inversion of the Greek mindset regarding history; what it was and what it meant. An urban core church tells us that the future is the past, that what is to come is actually behind us, its origins are very much its destinations and we complete our mortal being in the death of the present alone. Mythos, in its timeless and principled mannerisms, can duly afford both this contradiction – in itself there is no temporal conflict as history cannot exist in myth – and its benediction; it is rather through the logos that the future regains its promise and the present thus becomes promissory. To see the temple as a mere relic is to enforce the linearity of the very Word which the new belief and its attendant world-system have bequeathed to us. But it is a literal enforcement even so, for at once it can take refuge in the umbrella ethic, imported from the East, that earthly life was to be transcended, and thus even the places of worship upon the earth would be annulled in their meaningfulness and annihilated in their objectificity, as well as being able to hang the Logos up above its own worldly speech; to not do this second part meant to hang oneself, tethered to a world both forsaken and thus doomed: ‘my words fly up but my thoughts remain below’, as Shakespeare has it. Here, thought, a form of the Logos, is meant to itself retrieve the Being of mythos. No wonder then are we reserved in the face of any future.

            Though history can be concretized as ‘the past’, either as an official account to be found in government records like Hansard, courtroom transcripts, policy manuals, papal tracts or missals, and many other like documents, it remains fluid due to countering events such as new archaeological discoveries or historical interpretations, as well as the vicissitudes of mortal memory and even the popular culture misrepresentations of both historical cultures and otherwise well-documented events. The future is, by definition, plastic, but by redefinition, so is the past. The present lies in an Husserlian flux, even fluxion, so that its fluidity is as undeniable as is its sheer immanence. Its ‘pure presence’, however eidetic and hence rather unavailable in its tendency to be unavailing of itself, could be seen as another way in which to ‘avoid a void’, as it were. If there was a well-ensconced horror of the vacuum in spatial representation, as the logos gained preeminence, this sentiment found itself transposed to the very cosmos; ‘nature abhors a vacuum’. Today, cosmology fills in the greatest vacuum yet discovered by science, that of open intergalactic space, with ‘dark matter’ and even darker energy that shines not observably but in fact historically, refracting the ’ether’ of the Victorians. These and like efforts speak to us not of a simple accumulation of knowledge but the more so of a mimesis: that while nature might abhor nothingness, history deplores it, humanity avoids it, including my personal death, and temporality absolves itself from it. Thus to be plastic is to adopt an adeptly adaptive response to self-negation.

            The unshaped space is at best, a place-to-be. Unlived time is imminent alone, without presence. Idioms such as the ‘virgin landscape’, ‘virgin seas’, ‘untapped energy’, even inertia itself, all testify to the sense that what is the new is as well exciting, even if it might also be feared. To be the first to discover or explore something is to become a vehicle for the future. This is a metaphor of mythos, but one absorbed by the history of logos; in our very individuality we grant the safest of harbors to the idea of both uniqueness and thence the ability to be the first one to have done this or that, this specific way and no other. Simply because it is I, as an I, no one else could fill that void. Yet the goal is ever the same: to happen across a blankness and conjure forth a tapestry, to take the mute and give it voice, to transform the nothing into a something. This act is fluidity, it enacts change. Through this ability, we are able to see the future even if we have yet to fully experience it. The trick remains, however, to see in a future something which is itself different from what has previously filled such diverse voids; gaps in knowledge being perhaps the most important. Lloyd’s futurity is preferable to Hoffman’s, but between them we are called to witness the dual poles of human possibility; that I can busily color in the bald heralds of death without considering their augury and their ability to import the future into my very presence or, I can, with resolute being, step into each of them and move through them, only filling them up in passing, and thereby gaining the wisdom of that which moves all mortal life.

            G.V. Loewen is the author of over 60 books, and was professor of the interdisciplinary human sciences for over two decades.

Now you say it, now you don’t

Now you say it, now you don’t (recanting recantation)

            What is the character of the take-back? What could have so changed for me that I am myself transformed in return? That what I stated to be the case, either for myself, for another, or for the world, was either in error, ignorant or deliberate, moral or empirical, or could never have been in the first place nearest the truth? In recanting, I must pivot, change my mind or heart, or so be changed by ensuing events, including the contents of my own experiences as a person. Of course, changing one’s tune may be enforced unethically and externally, for instance by an authoritarian parent, but these kinds of recantations are themselves false. A forced choice is in fact no choice at all. Rather, I must be convinced that altering tack is not only in my best interest but as well comes to me, and at the least, as if I had made the choice to backtrack of my own free will.

            Three modes of recantation stand out; those of remorse, regret and reserve. They have slightly different ethical inclinations, and thus as motives, carry a somewhat diverse suasion about them. Remorse may certainly be faked, but the conception itself generally has to do with a sense that I have indeed erred and that the error was one of character and not simply act. Regret, by contrast, has in it a sense that I could well feel it even if its source is me being caught out; that I regret not getting away with my error, most especially, in it not becoming a new truth and thus able to stand alone in a more longitudinal fashion. Reserve is the most objective source of recantation. It suggests that something in the world has changed, unexpectedly, or in some other way as unlikely or improbable, and my statement of the facts meant to hold into the near future is thus rendered obsolete. Reserve is built into predictions or even predications from the start, and one might even note this or that possibility as a caveat. The least sophisticated form of reserve is the ‘margin of error’ employed by predictive statistics, nodding both to the vicissitudes of sample size and the foregoing ‘history’ of the kind of test involved. Here, a take-back is also equally simple: once in a while the most probable outcome does not occur.

            Importing this sensibility into the ethical life reduces human existence to a mere game of chance. At its most base level, probability does have an agency all its own. Even so, calculating ‘the odds’ and applying them to situations where I either seek to ‘get away’ with something or other, or further, tell myself that it is unlikely I am misrecognizing my own motives by way of a reassurance that I am working for the good, is itself a form of bad faith. This is one reason why reserve is so attractive. Within its probabilistic preserve, I am neither morally nor ethically culpable. Unless the odds themselves have been misrepresented – and in this, one would already have inserted a different kind of source for potential recantation – the numbers stand alone, telling their own tale; there is no ‘school’ to be minded in such cases, and I cannot speak either inside or outside thereof. Yet in its very attraction, reserve seems to promise a way around having to face up to either authentic remorse or being compelled to exhibit regret, no matter the outcome. This is surely why those who are neither predicting the weather, election results, nor yet stock values, are temped to imagine that acts of character are no different than risk assessments.

            Reserve is, however, a possible candidate for ethical action if it is employed before any decision or statement is actually made. Though somewhat archaic, we regularly see in literature descriptions of characters who ‘act with reserve’, or who present themselves as ‘reserved’. These are understood by the reader to be observers of the human character, including their own. They neither tilt at windmills nor jump in the fire. They are associated with level-headedness, but of a moral kind and not the ‘cool under fire’ type who may well be a hothead in terms of what decisions he has previously made to place him those kinds of situations. The reserved person is also one whom others seek out for advice or even judgment. Such characters are often more conservative than their peers, but not always. To say to oneself or to another than one harbors ‘reservations’ about this or that decision is to always be ahead of the moment. One cannot be reserved either about action or within its heady movement. Just so, the person ‘with reserve’ is seen as much more likely to have come to the correct conclusion before such action duly commences. It is only when such a character begins to become too enamored of her own observations and predictions that her countenance is altered from one of quiet confidence to a more unbridled arrogance, and this is where both remorse and regret awake to the doings of the day.

            A winning record does not by itself produce this change. One can be proved right without anyone else being aware. Entire novels have centered around this type of character, often a child, whose witness to adult doings is unmarred by the accumulated politics of experience. Such a character suffers if she discloses the truth too often, or in too sensitive a condition, but nonetheless she endures as a figure of the truth. The child in literature is oft used as a guileless messiah; she is relatively newly born to a has-been world, suggesting the ‘twice-born’ status of an elect, and she thus as well has no specific loyalty to how that world is itself run, or has been run, in the past. Hence, she is unreserved in her ability to stand back and behold within reserve. She has no agency other than her bare witness, and whatever suffering she endures at the hands of adults, the narrative can either itself take an heroic stand against it, having the youthful character never blink, never break, or in a more tragic tone, gradually but relentlessly convert the child into a wholly agentive, but otherwise utterly flawed, adult.

            And herein do we ourselves witness the appearance of both remorse and regret. In the main, the hero feels the former, the anti-hero the latter. Remorse centers around our conception of the betrayal of conscience, and this may include our own as an approximation of that of the other, or, if the other in question does not in fact feel herself to have been betrayed, nevertheless I may have betrayed myself; my own standards of ethical conduct have been transgressed; I have ‘fallen below’ my better selfhood. Conscience, whatever its ultimate source, is both the origin and the destination of remorse. One might go so far to suggest that remorse is best characterized as a wholly internal conversation with oneself, as opposed to regret, which at some point must be recognized by others. The courtroom expression ‘the showing of remorse’ in order to facilitate a lighter sentence or a more compassionate judgment, lends itself to the fakery of charm. Authentic remorse only discloses itself, and that as an elemental ethical aspect of Dasein’s ownmost being; it is never simply displayed. In this, remorse cannot be ‘shown’, only expressed indirectly, either by one’s subsequent actions or yet inactions. Remorsefulness as an emotional state may precede such a disclosure and thence carry through to the point wherein the other has finally pardoned my error rather than merely corrected it – here we speak of forgiveness in the West or forbearance in the East, though the latter term seems to have a wider temporal usage; one can be forbearing in the same way as one can be reserved, for example, while the sense of ‘being forgiving’ or having a ‘forgiving’ personality is more awkward, even a misunderstanding of the concept – or it may become a more permanent fixture, pending on the scope and scale of my error. In mighty contrast to merely regretting an otherwise passing faux pas – here, we are often told by a friend or lover that ‘no one else noticed it, no worries’, or such-like – remorseful being is an ethical inclination of Dasein’s ownmost call to conscience, and indeed, characterizes this call in all of its arcs, returning to itself the very source of its phenomenological disposition as a being who acts as opposed to one who can only enact, such as a God or hero.

            While remorse utters a disquisitive discourse in which I am in turn called to confront my own actions, once taken or, for the character whose combination of both reserve and unflinching self-examination is superior, even before any action commences, regret is a concept that is defined only and always after the fact. Regret, thus rather speaks inquisitively; it is always on the make to find out as precisely as possible the chances against it; that is, how likely it is to be compelled to feel itself. Remorse does not seek to avoid its own presence, while regret’s entire predisposition is to the contrary. I do not wish to regret my actions, decisions, words or deeds, nor do I wish to regret my interactions with others, especially those whom I love. But in all this, I am self-interested and to a tee. For regret is the care of the self spoken into being by way of bad faith. Remorse is a part of my very being, an authentic ‘existentiell’ of Dasein’s concernfulness and indeed, a catalyst thereto. It is part of the character of the ‘I can do it again’ as a manner of both basic learning and ethical improvement. Regret, though at first shunning the converse phenomenological realization that ‘I cannot swim in the same river twice’, has to work to overcome itself in order to at least feel a sense of relief, let alone joy, that this is in fact the essential case for human beings. To say one thing in its favor, regret has the ability to reorient my sensibilities to that relief: ‘I do not wish to return after all, I am glad it’s over, I live for today and thence for the future, and I will not live in the past.’ Indeed, regret may be so placed; it is a resident of what has come before, and I do not wish to revisit it. Remorse, in its turn, while not compelling me to return to the source of my regret, does ever move me to consider reserve to be the superior witness as itself an aspect of being-ahead.

            Regret at length utters a recantation of itself, generally without changing our ethical character. Remorse recants any such take back, and instead settles in, in order to reshape, however slightly, the interior of our conscience. It seeks to avoid the use of recanting for not only appearance’s sake – this is another reason why it can only disclose and never display – but also as a fail-safe against human ethical error more generally. For remorseful being to work as does anxiety itself, I must orient myself not only to the futural, but as well to understand that any relevant human future can only come about if by definition it speaks no language of the past. Regret seeks the past as succor for its misery, and even remorse must eventually let go its hold over our being-concerned. Even reserve must count as one of its reservations its own self-witness, so that it does not become a simple barrier to change. At the same time, we are, as beings of finiteness and finitude alike, ethically called upon to ‘live without reserve’. How we navigate the situated conditions wherein the dynamic made of contemplation and of action wills its outcome will in turn define both ourselves and our consciences.

            G.V. Loewen is the author of over 60 books, and was professor of the interdisciplinary human sciences for over two decades.

The Decoy of Self-Improvement

The Decoy of Self-Improvement (a conflict of metaphysical expectations)

            I am a thrown project, arcing over what is at hand, stumbling through what is closest to me. I find I am a being in the world, a being which is completed only in mine ownmost death. I inherit nothing of my own, at first, and this cultural persona yet resonates with archetypes universal as well as the apical ancestry of the specific culture history into which I have come. As a boy, I had a certain set of role models after which I could shape myself: the adventurer, the warrior, the navigator, the architect, the bard and so on. The list of gendered archetypes for men is no longer than that for womankind, but it is much more projective, opening onto the world and indeed, taking the world for its own. And while it is an open question whether or not the hero’s life is still superior to that of the person’s, we are today confined by the dynamic extant between personhood and persona, an unquiet keep into which no hero can tread.

            To insert the heroic into modernity we have invented the popular discourse of self-improvement. I am not a hero, for I live in the world of humanity alone, but I may believe that I yet can act heroically, mimicking not the character of an archetype but simply some of its behavior. Each of our culture heroes, after the agrarian revolution, are figures like ourselves, augmented human beings, demi-gods due to a mixed birth, miscegenative misfits who are thus mis-aligned in both the social world and that dreamscape of the pantheon. The agrarian culture heroine is marked by her divorce from animality. In pre-agrarian societies, these beings are defined by their ability to change their incarnative presence, animal spirits who can take the shape of a human being and back and forth, as well as take on many other forms, relevant or appropriate to their task at hand. In my home, it is Raven who is the leading figure in what for us is now a most alien sensibility. Raven discovered the first people in a giant clamshell washed up on a remote beach, the metaphorical image connoting some kind of deep culture memory of the Bering Strait crossings, some 20-40K years ago. We are told that Raven was as astonished as were the people themselves, and this too is of profound import: across the pre-agrarian consciousness, humans and animals share not only a common nature, they share a common humanity as part of that nature.

            This is the metaphysics of transformation rather than that of transfiguration, which appears much later in human history. And at this later time there is as well a split, a schism, between the great irrigation civilizations of the East and those of the Middle East and West. In the former, transcendental metaphysics came into its own, with the goal of leaving this life for something that carried one’s being far beyond it. In the West, the this-world was understood as a proving ground for the otherworld, and, in passing over the evaluative limen which demarcated the two, one was transfigured. The concepts are distinct: in transformational metaphysics, it is a two-way street. One can change into something else for a time, and then change back, as the need arose. It is highly likely this idea came from the seasonal rounds subsistence societies were compelled to rigidly follow. Even the village sites changed, and in Raven’s geographic region the winter habitation sites were considered permanent, those for the summer, nomadic and temporary, shifting to follow fish, game, and plant food. The community took on a mobile form and format in the warmer months, and settled down into a rich symbolic harvest of narrative, theater, song and dance, during those colder. It was in winter that the animal spirits and others more radically Other, such as the world-transformer Kanekelak, or the Thunderbird, appeared and thence convened with Raven’s children and all of their relations. In these cultures, the mask represented this convention of Being, allowing the transformation of the hunter and the gatherer into something archetypical.

            In the metaphysics of transfiguration, there is no going back. It is strictly a one-way street, and in the West, it was the Egyptians who invented this sensibility. There were no seasonal rounds in massive irrigation societies, from the Yellow River in China, to the Indus-Harappan in India, to Sumer and Mesopotamia, through Babylon and to the Nile. Sedentism proper had taken over, writing was invented as well as slavery, large-scale warfare, and the priesthood, this last nothing more than a ‘calumniation’, according to Nietzsche. The Epic of Gilgamesh agrees with him and indeed broadens the critique, for its major ethical theme exhorts the hero to turn his back on the accumulated wealth of the new epoch and return to the garden; the world’s undomesticated larder which by itself never quite generated enough surplus for the social stratigraphy we accept as ‘natural’ to have taken hold. It is today ours to live with as best we can, but the perduring voice of the first mythic narratives still gives us pause: what if we could engender the perfect society, the best way of human life?

            If the culture hero as a figure is the frame within which I seek to improve myself, then the return to paradise is the goal. The sensibility is still agrarian, however, for I wish to become something other to myself at present and then never go back to it. It may well be that the conflict between pre-agrarian goals attained by agrarian means is what, at base, sabotages my efforts to make today’s society into an earthly Nirvana, wherein all are treated justly and all have what they need to live at a certain qualitative standard. We have yet to discover an authentically modern self-understanding, bereft of either aspects of the social contract – the idea of paradise itself – or those of the archaic civilizations – that I can transfigure myself and thus become more than I have been. There may be, in spite of these vast gulfs of both history and memory alike, still some points of contact. Raven is a pragmatist at heart. His transformational abilities are to be employed ad hoc, and never to simply gain status. It is of especial relevance that the huge surpluses that were in fact generated by the coastal chiefdoms were here redistributed through status-enhancing displays. The Potlatch, one of Bataille’s examples of the corresponding outlet for this set of cultures’ ‘accursed share’, saw both gift-giving and destruction of valuable objects, the ritual sacrifice of slaves, and alliance-marriage of young women. It must have been a lurid, outlandish spectacle, with its combination of grotesquerie and wanton vandalism, its deep cultural theater and the very presence of the transformer beings themselves, perhaps at a bit of a distance, their forms blending with the shadows of the giant conifers and the overshadows of the more distant mountains.

            For ritual too would become more staid with the advent of agriculture. Even its most grim displays – like the cutting out of a the heart of a slave or war prisoner at the top of the cultic Meso-American pyramid; in one stroke the formidable obsidian blade would slice through the ribcage, for the heart must still be beating as it was held up to the God in question – was a moment of climax. Propitiation had been altered from a simple orison to the cougar when one killed a deer or a women’s chorus on the beach willing the safe return of the whale-hunters and their canoes, to a highly rehearsed and therefore rote repetition of liturgical prayer, in the recesses of temples meant to ape mystery without their spaces actually being mysterious, such as the cave in which one of the first people witnessed the transformers’ secret song and dance. With sedentary society, highly stratified and specialized, generating uncounted surpluses of both foodstuffs and the mouths it had to feed, cosmogony gradually loosened its hold upon cosmology, and humanity itself, by shifting its sense of the temporal into an historical cycle rather than one timeless and eternally recurring, began to insert itself into the workings of the universe.

            But nowhere in human history and prehistory alike do we find the idea of self-improvement. It is a distinctly modern sensibility, even if it attempts an amalgam of more ancient sources. I am not a hero, yet I can act heroically; I have never experienced paradise, and yet I can create my own; I seek no Olympic summit but rather only to move institutional mountains. The symbolic decoy of this novel approximation of Dasein’s own authentic arc lies in its departure from our existential lot. I cannot be an allegory of myself, I cannot live as does the archetype, for indeed the latter does not ‘live’ in any real sense at all. Even here, however, such odd delusions are not fatal, for the entire worldview with which they had been associated is long past. No, the truer decoy, beyond any symbolic distraction, rests in the sensibility that only the individual person has the mandate to improve himself, and more than this, only himself. Yet further, that the individual person is the only space in which there could be improvement, implying that society as a whole is thereby bettered only because solitary persons have elected, of their own free will and perhaps goodness of heart, to better themselves. This radically inductive approach to cultural evolution is both utterly new – pace the social planners and utopianists from More to Skinner and everyone in between – as well as being oddly blind to its disconnect from the world. Its ethic – that I as a role model foster more compassionate attitudes and actions amongst other with whom I interact – is equivocal. Its light comes in the form of the neighbor, which is the most radically disjunctive of archetypes since he is fully human and yet has abandoned his humanity in a transformational manner. The neighbor excerpts herself from the bonds and bounds of all social roles, but yet returns to the world after her heroic act is completed. The world, in the interim, has not itself been altered.

            Let me suggest then that self-improvement outside of either symbolic distraction or the delusion of induction can be understood as the irruption of the neighbor, this libertine of compassion. Such action turned to act is, phenomenologically speaking, an expression of Dasein’s call to conscience; it is bereft of the self-conscious, as in its personal Potlatch it throws to the winds all possible worry and transforms concern to care, but more importantly, it is also devoid of self-consciousness, in that the sense that I must render care to myself first and foremost is also discarded. The neighbor is a presence outside of the present, it is an action becoming act, a being-within-the-worlding, and a figure without archetype. Its humanity is perhaps primordial, and only its ethic, historical. It decoys nothing, and yet it improves something, and this other-than-the-self which, in its transformation, also enacts something outside of itself and without self-reference. It allows me to become part of that which is closest to me, and, for a moment, the world is no longer simply at hand, but rather has arced itself up to meet my thrownness and take me into its essential embrace.

            G.V. Loewen is the author of over 60 books, and was professor of the interdisciplinary human sciences for over two decades.

Token and Taboo

Token and Taboo (an unspoken snafu)

            In Bourgeois institutions, such as the Von Humboldtian university, the Jewish colleague was at once a token and a taboo. It was considered bad form to mention his ethnic background, but as well, it was in bad taste to mistreat him. He was both the ultimate outsider – insofar as ‘the Jews’ were the ‘pariah’ community; it should be noted here that Weber’s phrase does not connote any kind of stigmata but refers to the ancient Hebrews lack of a homeland – and, due to the Jewish precept of representing the Logos, and for some time even after the new covenant is proclaimed, the ultimate insider when it came to the text. ‘The people of the book’ is a stereotype, but rather more of a complimentary one than ‘the Jew’ both ‘eternal’ and ‘wandering’. This incipient tokenism in the Protestant space was, for some today, I imagine, the beginning of the end or, as Berdyaev might have it, both at once. Catholics had, of course, their own colleges, and it is important to note here that Jews were even less welcome in these institutions, modeled as they were after the original, medieval university and not that modern.

            The sense that an educational system must reflect the values of this or that subculture, whether originally ethnic-based or linguistic, religious or more recently, social class or simply of just plain material wealth, is a symptom of the absence of the concept of a wider human community. The Quakers founded their own colleges, and some few yet exist. From the late 19th century onward, schooling based upon specialized pedagogies also arose, beginning with John Dewey’s lab school in the 1890s and carrying forward with sites such as Black Mountain College, Summerhill, and the Montessori system. These alternative campuses presented themselves as attempts in creating an authentic learning community, and yet one within a wider society that hardly knew they even existed. The archetype is, of course, the ‘cult’ or sect; a small group of acolytes led by the master in the East or even a messiah figure in the West. Nietzsche’s comment about those who seek followers, ‘get noughts (zeros but also nothings) behind you’, is well taken, but at the same time, those with a vision, for better or worse, must indeed find those numbers if a solitary flash is to build into a social movement. The link between religion and education – in antiquity, much the same thing until the Eleatic and Miletian schools began to think something of worldly matters – is yet deeply held; the major competition to State education is still that parochial.

            Yet the continued existence of credo-based learning in separate sites, exclusive in terms of ideology and value-orientation, is not truly a testament to the endurance of such values, but rather a tacit admission of their failure and subsequent defeat. For, if I were confident in my Christianity, for instance, and followed the lead of Jesus in both eschewing the directly political-secular sphere – ‘render unto Caesar’ etc. – and yet working throughout the polis to model and demonstrate my ethics, why would I not desire to be within the very heart of where young people who are not converts and not believers dwell? If my values are so strong, are so noble, why would they not only withstand their foes but indeed, win them over? That parochial schools exist in modernity is a sign of self-mockery; a self-inflicted wound to be emblazoned upon the corpus of a dejected curricula laid upon the corpse now consisting of only disjecta membra. The truer Christian or Muslim does not turn away from the world; these are both Western worldviews and cosmogonies which do not seek Nirvana nor to transcend the earthly. Rather, they are soteriological through and through: the earth and its peoples must be saved, not left below in as yet an unenlightened state.

            Given this, teaching these children in spaces set apart from the world is tantamount to having given up the entire basis for the belief in the first place. It is especially concerning for the early Protestant sectarians such as the Anabaptists, for whom faith must be voluntary. The existence of such spaces, such as the child’s Sunday school, wherein very young persons are taught the basics of this or that belief, carry a patent and potent irony about them to this regard. Such presentation of the Logos is not in fact voluntary, and is practiced in almost an involuntary manner, as adults do not pause to think about what they are actually committing, and committing to. Such processes make faith the token, and taboo the anti-institutional critique in which Jesus and others engaged. Better by far to abandon these ‘Eastern’ spaces – the monasteries of Tibet and the Himalayas were also schools, and their very placement at higher altitudes was a nod to the physical sense that one was beginning to loosen one’s ties to the world and those who lived in it, far below – and fully immerse oneself in the hurly-burly of wider cultural life, as did Jesus himself. Never one to shy away from confrontation, at first appearing contrary to his uttered ethic exhorting both forgiveness and self-sacrifice – and in this did Jesus demonstrate that practicing both by definition meant placing oneself in the midst of resistance – the Christian god on earth would presumably disapprove of our attempts to shelter both ourselves, but especially our children, away from the society as a whole. It is, even in the Pauline texts, unchristian to make Christianity an exclusive space, geared to specific followers and training only those who happen to be born, very much involuntarily, into said communities.

            In our time, over most of the globe, religion is itself a token. Why then also make it a token of itself, a shadow, even a remanant? If it is taboo to discuss religions matters, matters of the heart or soul, within secular spaces, surely even the looming presence of aging churches amidst all of the glass, concrete and steel of the modern metropolis, is also an unspoken self-indictment. They are anachronistic, both architecturally and atmospherically. The history of the urban landscape is such that it was inevitable these structures gain their ‘left-over’ look, for their organizational backdrop allowed them to survive demolition, even if no parishioners remained. It is also a taboo to suggest their final removal, perhaps even to think it! Such is seen as an unhallowed hallmark of the fuller presence of the anti-Christ among us. The famed hip-hop epigram, ‘bail out the banks, loan art to the churches’ might be more radically over-written, ‘socialize the banks, demolish the churches’, but so it goes. At the same time, there must also be those entrepreneurs who bemoan the waste of valuable real estate in city core business districts which are taken up by these wastrel relics. It is of some interest to acknowledge that even cemeteries have been moved or simply built over, especially the historical or ‘pioneer’ graveyard, where only the stone monuments have been preserved. It is an odd experience to investigate their newer sites knowing that no human remains lie underneath. What then is the point of the memorials?

            The preservation of both empty churches and hollow gravestones tells us that it is neither religion nor ancestor that is directly being recalled to culture memory, but rather the problem of mortality and the only response humanity has thus far invented, that is, faith itself, that retains its perennial quality. Modernity does not free itself from finitude, and indeed exacerbates its condition by sloughing off the conceptual gravitas of both death as an abstraction and the means by which one has been called to overcome it. It is almost as if by surpassing the salvation doctrine of the new covenant we have somehow also gotten beyond the very reason for its existence! That mortality is a clinical phenomenon alone makes soteriology something only theologically interesting. The modern priesthood, the guild of psychologists, presides over an altar dedicated to the origins, not of life, but rather of the individual person. Its great achievement is its ability to separate personhood from persona, and help anyone do the same for themselves. In this, it is absolutely and directly a descendent of Christian ethics, wherein Jesus appears as the first person. Its utter reliance on the individual, however, at the same time subjects it to an unethical reduction; the ego only relates to faith as if the latter were a mere symbolic apparatus of the super-ego. God dwells in morality – this is the ‘old God’, long dead; why should psychology co-opt it and place it at the head of the institutional and ideological table? – and the devil rusticates in unbridled sexuality, or the libidinal Id. Here, classical analysis betrays its reliance on Greek-Judaic myth, in the very face of its drive to become a science.

            Is the presence of mythos in logos then also a token? Is it taboo to point out such a presence? Just as morality dumbs down ethics, in the process making the world look far simpler than it actually is, myth hijacks thought, time sabotages history, the designer trumps the artist. These are the more worrisome ‘satanic reverses’. For Freud, the ‘totemic’ represented not just the crests of clans and their specific druthers but as well a kind of hierarchy wherein the symbolic forms of cultural life competed against one another; the vulvar shapes lower down the phallic pole, the male membership higher up. Certainly, he was not speaking of actual totems, whereupon we rather see the animal spirits and archetypes in mutual support, the bear or killer whale at the bottom in part due to their sheer ability to hold the rest of their allies skyward, the creatures of the air perched atop the pole exactly as they do in reality, and those with especial duties, such as the ‘three watchmen’, as well at the very top; in all of this, function and form are one. These last figures represent both the vigilance necessary for the village to safeguard itself from both storm and enemy alike, but as well, the unuttered but not at all taboo confidence in the people’s alliance with, and even love for, the beings of the forest and mountain, for there is never a fourth watchmen figure facing rearward, away from the ocean.

            We have long lost that confidence, thinking that our superior comprehension of nature entails our complete abandonment of what that same nature has bequeathed to us via its patent evolution. Reason stands aloof to imagination, and yet both are necessary to be fully human. The rational admits nothing of the non-rational into its intensely bureaucratized corridors of borrowed power. Our success at personhood, even if we continue to deny even this to ourselves through identity politics and the adoration of celebrity persona, is at times overshadowed by the ultimate need for a shared existence which carries us beyond death whilst we are still dying. It is authentic courage to face death as mine ownmost completion of being, an overcoming of the final taboo and a dismissal of all euphemism, but it is an equally sincere cowardice to make human community, however passing, into a token of itself, in order to vault that most incomplete being into the sham of personalized myth.

            G.V. Loewen is the author of over 60 books, and was professor of the interdisciplinary human sciences for over two decades.

Our Memory of the Future

Our Memory of the Future (Prescience, Predilection, Prediction)

            At first glance, the future and the past appear to be nothing other than opposites. The past has occurred, the future has not. The past is a matter of record, even if such documentation remains private. The future is, by definition, as yet unwritten. So how, if this is indubitably the case, can we suggest that in spite of this, we are in possession of a kind of ‘memory’ of the future, a foreknowledge of what is still to come? For phenomenology, memory takes up the converse position to anticipation. But just here, we note that the latter can be very much based upon the former. Erfahrung anticipates Erlebnis, and indeed, the adventure of life experience at the personal level takes on the mantle of a discursive venture, the more sedimented it becomes within our consciousness. This mutual imbrication of memory and anticipation also suggests that the past and the future may not be quite as oppositional as they seem. There are at least three angles by which we may investigate further.

            1. Prescience: Though I have heard others tell of ‘predictive dreams’, wherein the dream sequence turns out to be repeated in waking life a short time afterward, I have never myself experienced ‘prescience’. Often, the narrative is one of trauma, even life and death, such as when the dreamer has inadvertently run over a child who has rushed unexpectedly into the path of their vehicle. In waking life, the same sequence of events occurs but this time, due to this foreknowledge and the recognition that one is ‘living the dream’, as it were, the child’s life is spared. I have heard numerous examples of this phenomena, which could well be put down to a backreading effect that trauma can have upon us; we seek to provide a rationale for challenging action in the world, positive or negative. Prescience of this flavor might be a ‘psychosomatic’ cousin of the better known (pseudo)experience of déja vu. At the same time, the unexpected and dramatic are not at all always the themes of dream-into-reality. I have also heard many accounts of a simple, even repetitive mundanity which is first dreamed and thence lived out. One example that is oft mentioned is that of one’s morning routine, where one thinks that one has already awakened, gotten out of bed, and run through one’s daily ablutions even to the point of getting into one’s vehicle and starting it up, only to actually then awake and, likely with a sigh, run through the entire series once again, this time perhaps harboring some small skepticism about the question of reality itself. Prescience is also claimed by quasi-religious specialists – much more so in antiquity or in traditional societies than today and in our own – as part of their specific skill set; the ability to access an intertemporal plenum where the normative flow of linear time is not relevant. Even here, however,  I will suggest that precisely because human life is mostly routine and thus predictable, the dreamer and the shaman alike are merely playing upon, and perhaps also playing out, our general sense that tomorrow will be much the same as today. This is the ‘odds on’ approach that functions as a leitmotif in all three of our apertures, and only becomes outré or even eldritch when misplaced; either by calculation, as by the shaman, or by sheer repetitive happenstance, as with the dreamer.

            2. Predilection: Here, one is assumed to have a better grasp of what might yet happen not because of the ability to access alternate forms or aspects of consciousness or time, but rather more mundanely, has instead honed a worldly skill that opens the door to making subjective predictions. Predilection could be very much defined by the personalization of probability theory, our third character below. Yet there remains a link with prescience even so, making predilection our second term in a loosely logical formula. This is the case because religion has itself been personalized, beginning in the pre-modern and accelerating during the modern periods. We have seen that prescience is highly personal; intimate, in the case of the shaman, who can only transfer his powers to an apprentice – the motif of existential transport, unforced in the instance of soul transmigration, and violently criminal, even evil, in the instance of ‘consecrated hosting’ and such-like sorcery – and beyond even this, intimate to the point of being unshareable, in the case of the prescient dreamer. Predilection is not as exclusive, nor does it need resort to occult means and methods to be communicated. Yet it also, on the far side, never ascends to a discourse, as does the statistic. This is so due to its still somewhat personal character. One might say, simply as a nod to the face-to-face, that predilection is the personable version of prescience, just as prediction is that entirely impersonal. These learned skill sets which occur only in our shared world are also much more recognizable than those deliberately occluded – the shaman’s trickery – or yet occlusive by nature – the world of dreams. The fact that predilection is an extension of action in the present is also of note: this second term allows us to recall the past and our work now ‘in’ that past to ourselves, with a view to repeating it in a present which through that very action moves itself into the future. Here, we gain the perspective that simple doing propels the present into the immediate future, without the need to command that future to appear as either preparatory apparition or maleficent vision.

            3. Prediction: Probability and statistics are part of a fully modern discourse, taking their formal place within applied mathematics. Discourse is, as we know, something that one studies, equally formally, and within the pedagogic framework of various institutional settings. The ability to ‘crunch the numbers’ might seem to an outsider to have retained a bit of the occult atmosphere around it, for not everyone has a gift in this arena, but the results of this skill set are both public and as well, function cross-culturally, neither of which can be claimed by either of our first two terms. The shaman’s magic is notoriously local in effect; one has to be a believer in it oneself if it is to have any result at all, thus extending our notion of the placebo, in this instance back into time. The person with a knack for this or that may find that his skill is irrelevant given shifting historical context. But a statistic is simply what it is; the only common confusion that perdures – much to the delight of those who operate casinos – is that between point and series probability. In a closed system, the relation between one event and the next is fully dependent upon the range of possible events so enclosed; this generates the series. But no matter what the make-up of the set or even ‘universe’ occurring is at hand, one cannot transfer such odds point to point; a blue marble pulled out of a sack this time does not by itself connote a red one the next. So, when a gambler believes that it is high time ‘his’ number comes up, he is deluding himself. The set of possible numbers at stake, completely public and thus above-board, assuming the wheel is not itself rigged, nor the dice weighted, contains no series probability, only that point. A red 34 this time does not imply a black 31 the next. And even though craps operates upon a real-world curve, super-positioned upon a finite and discrete statistical model derived from the binomial theorem, this does not help us predict point to point rolls, for here, series probability only comes into play over the course of many assays. Prediction is thus itself subject to occultation by the unwary and the wishful-thinking, but in itself it has none of these features. This overlay of ‘mystical’ desire only underscores how enduring is the human sense that we should be able to control, even a little, events which have yet to occur. It is no coincidence that one of the themes of time-travel in entertainment fiction centers around taking advantage of foreknowledge in order to get rich, or to maintain the transtemporal lifestyle with some perhaps higher purpose in mind, from episodes of The Twilight Zone to Stephen King novels. In fact, prediction is as routine as it is mundane. And if our ‘need to know’ basis cannot be entirely assuaged even by the most accurate of risk analysts – weekly weather patterns and daily stock performances, morning commute times and the divorce and suicide rates alike – we can take some comfort in knowing that the near future is highly unlikely to be radically different from either the recent past or thus the present as well.

            Each of our three apertures, however contrived, are attestations to humanity’s basic will to life; what our species and likely its forebears have as part of its existential character, and what has replaced, for us, the survival instinct of animals. We are aware, somewhat indirectly, that the world continues as a futural space of beings, even if we ourselves will at some point be absented from that worlding. The confusion between point and series probability likely has its truer, and far more profound, home in a similar confusion regarding our own lives and those of our children. Vicarious parenting is certainly seen as negative, but what parent could say that they would not want at least a little of themselves ‘in’ their kids? And yet society at large is not a closed system – all efforts to make it so, through ethnic enclave or even parochial schooling are, to my mind, their own kind of regressive evil – and history, as the known narrative of human consciousness as a whole, is as open as our imagination and experience combined can be. Given this, our children lead their own lives, point by point, without the parent being able to predict with any accuracy this next life. That the apple may not fall far from the tree ignores the fact that such a fruit bears within it another tree, unlike that of its predecessor. It also, as with most chestnuts of this sort, conflates two utterly different forms of life; a human being is not a tree, a child not a fruit.

            That we should neither retreat into a false seriality nor a simpleton’s utterance should be obvious, but the problem of knowing exactly what to do in the present, so that the future will be at least tolerable for those children’s different lives, remains of the utmost. And seen this way, none of the three categorical terms that we have briefly discussed above can help us in any ultimate manner. In their stead, what we do have at our disposal is a phenomenological memory of the future, constructed at once by the experiential dynamic of Erfahrung – this tells us that ‘we can do it again’, in Schutz’s sense, and includes both the expectations of practice and discourse – and Erlebnis – this in turn exhorts us to live in order to add to our experience through the truly novel and thus unexpected. Erfahrung is the hearthstone of human knowledge, while Erlebnis is its birthstone. In their syncretism do we find the living present, and in this shall we gain the touchstone of the future itself.

            G.V. Loewen is the author of over 60 books, and was professor of the interdisciplinary human sciences for over two decades.

A Lion in a Christian Den

A Lion in a Christian Den (My Ethnographic Church-Hopping)

            There is a well-known distinction made in the sociology of religion between religious belief and religious behavior. Ritual, that which engages in a public and thus shared manner of experiencing action in the world, with a view to integrating and maintaining community, is considered an external and thence observable set of behaviors. This is contrasted with belief, an internal sense or orientation that is in itself maintained by the faith in that said community. The most concise and accurate definition of their amalgam comes of course from Durkheim: “Religion is society worshipping itself.” Certainly, but what then of faith? In investigating this related, but different, question, I found myself over the past quarter century attending a diversity of churches in some very different geographic and cultural regions of North America. I will briefly summarize two outstanding examples below, before attempting an equally cursive analysis.

            Mississippi: For three years I found myself in the very heart of what Mencken sartorially called ‘a miasma of Methodism, a backwater of Baptism’ and so on, but in spite of appearances, these most deep southerners more endured the ritualism of their ancestral beliefs than exhibited any sheer fanaticism concerning them. As one neighbor of mine said, ‘We’re like 7-Up; you like us, we like you’. Amicable enough, but the rider to such a sentiment included the sense that one should live and let live in the very much ‘when in Rome’ style. I too was something of an appearance, even an apparition, being a stranger in the strangest land I have ever experienced. My ad hoc but abrupt criticism of people’s beliefs and behaviors could be put down to me being a foreigner, even an ‘alien’, but there is only so long a community of like persons can put up with such before inviting the interloper to take his leave. Before this inevitable moment came, however, I had been equally invited to a great number of churches, since there were not only a plethora of choices scattered round the haunted landscape but as well, I had a great diversity of contacts through my professional employ.

            I attended a Methodist church, where people of my ‘class’ – which did not merely refer to socio-economic status; not at all – and ‘race’ – self-explanatory in this region – and found it to be a convivial hearth of semi-reflective self-analysis. Much depends upon the minister, of course, his druthers and his education, and the more so, his concept of faith. These Methodists were engaged in a self-critique which did not extend fully into their society of upbringing, but preferred to lead by implication: ‘If I falter, it is not so much the sources of my character but the way in which I as a character behaves’. By contrast, the Southern Baptist Convention uttered criticism only in the direction of others. I attended an example of this denomination and found it to be in most ways the very opposite of the Methodists. It was overtly anti-intellectual, defensive in its posture, preening in its delivery, and was unconcerned about the hallmark of the distinction noted at the beginning of this piece; that people who heard the sermon could not recall anything of its content when asked promptly after service ended. It was enough to see and be seen. The Mormon students that were in my classrooms were an ingratiating bunch, and I visited their ‘spaces’ and found them to be genuinely interested in learning as much as they could about other viewpoints. These were young people, often quite literally on their youth missions, and they were, in this region, often at extreme risk for violence to their persons, as Mormonism remains the devils’ work in Baptist and Evangelical territories. I also worked with a Mormon colleague whose favorite band was Van Halen and who had taken a doctorate in the social sciences. All of this likely mediocre education had made no impression upon his beliefs, but had completely altered his behavior. I also attended the Church of the Nazarene. This community was made up of blue collar professionals who had climbed one social class above their parents. It was ‘whiter than white’, excuse the apt and oft-used regional expression, and my black students looked at me with great concern and dismay upon their faces when I related my experiences with that sect. And speaking of which, I also received invitations from Black Baptist students and these forays, simply due to my own status and the culture shock felt perhaps more by their community than by myself upon darkening their doors, made for what was by far the most genuine Christian experience of any. The Black churches were ebullient, joyful, and emotional without reserve and reservation. They certainly had their own version of the ‘false consciousness’ about them, and why not, given the circumstances of their parishioners. If salvation was unnecessary for many whites – the white churches exhibited a great self-assuredness not so much that they were in the right doctrinally but that those who accepted their sectarian sensibilities could do no wrong thus-wise – those black took up the work of being saved with great gusto and passion. In a word, the black churches were proud, the white, merely prideful.

            Cape Breton Island: An equally marginal economic and cultural region, this ‘white person’s reserve’ – again, excuse the local flavor – had unexpectedly a great many similarities to the deep south. It had been marginalized by historical and economic circumstances; all who could get out had gotten out long ago. It too had a haunted landscape, filled with relics, antique graveyards, historical sites and towns lost to time. The churches were, however, themselves mostly abandoned, which contrasted mightily with Mississippi and contiguous states. My wife and I sat inside venerable piles with less than ten others upon numerous occasions, and we were by far the youngest people present, with the exception of the pastors themselves, who were always in their twenties. The only church that was able to maintain any sort of community was that Roman Catholic, and all others were essentially extended family affairs, in perhaps a fitting mimesis to the original churches of this area, settled as it was so far back in European North American history as to have lost the ability to think itself into a future at all. The United churches had here become as had the Presbyterian and Wesleyan churches elsewhere on the continent; the last vestiges of an ailing demographic willing themselves in and out of a collective grave. Belief was sacrosanct, but in a politely delicate manner reminiscent of arsenic and old lace. There were no abandoned churches in the old south, not even museum conversions, but indeed this latter was the better fate of churches in Cape Breton.

            Whereas ritualism was mostly avoided in Mississippi and like regions, the Cape Breton churches gave the appearance of only being able to go through the motions, perhaps reflecting the very lives of their fading converts. Interestingly, tradition was cited as the chief rationale for maintaining such small parishes and this in turn implies that most active reflection upon faith itself had long been replaced instead by a rote genuflection. It was personally disturbing that the two persons who had reached out to us most intimately died almost immediately after we had begun our social ties with them, one in his 80s, but the other in her 20s. They had given us the distinct impression that they had been moved by our interest and our interpretations of their work, which made their unexpected passing all the more resonant of the general passage of the wider cultural landscape and thus religion within it. The only other kind of church in this region could be called ‘new age’, or even ‘hippyesque’, and my impression of these meeting places – like some evangelicals, they disdained the term ‘church’ and did not themselves use it – was that they had collected all of those who had no familial networks through which one gained access to either the Catholic and especially the United options.

            Yet in almost every other way of life, the deep south and the extreme maritime regions enacted the same sensibilities and nursed the same sensitivities. Though the American Civil War yet resonated in Mississippi, it was not impossible that the Anglo-French war, occurring a century and more earlier, did not still have some effect in Cape Breton. One could argue that the island never did recover from the final obliteration of Louisbourg. Its simulacra, a brilliantly executed if only slightly more profound version of Caesar’s Palace, did not, in its faux resurrection, bring any of the rest of the region with it into the very much seasonal light of a niche tourist market.

            Reflections: A small church is today simply a gathering place for those who have grown up together. It is both a surrogate and genuine family, and one cannot simply show up out of nowhere and expect to be treated as one of its own. This is what large suburban churches, such as the ‘Alliance’ network and like others, are for. Now living in Winnipeg, my wife and I have found a small church that in general acts in a Christian manner, but here too, because of my own ethnic background, a Mennonite church can afford to exhibit its ‘welcome here’. Both sides of my family are from Winnipeg, and I am myself connected to well-known scions of the Mennonite presence, even if at a generational distance. All of this is highly suggestive that due to both the utter erosion of religion’s explanatory power – its cosmogony has no such force up against scientific cosmology – and the serial scandals that plague almost all churches of whatever credo and covenant, many of them to do with sexual abuse, even the word ‘church’ has begun to accrue to itself a kind of difficult baggage. And just as, also sociologically speaking, all churches begin as cults, some also end the same way.

            At the same time, modernity has fostered its own hallmark of an absence of community, and at all levels and in all of its institutions. It is a relatively simple thing to debunk belief, and an objective history of consciousness has shown that the very concept of the soul is at the least a cultural figment, at best a place-holder for an as-yet unexplored mechanism of the human psyche. We are mostly content to have supplanted its presence with an amalgam of personal conscience and the law. We have thus successfully displaced the spirit and its mortal expression in the church, but a perduring question remains: how does one replace the human heart?

            G.V. Loewen is the author of over 60 books, and was professor of the interdisciplinary human sciences for over two decades.

The ‘Ambitextrous’

The ‘Ambitextrous’ (Overtone and Undertone)

            Multiple meanings in literature, marketing, politics and even within the interactions of the day to day and the face to face are nothing new. They allow for the creative person to explore the human imagination, the wordsmith to get a kick, or the passive aggressive personality to take a shot. Playing deliberately from both hands, however, the ambidextrous text presents to us a more calculated version of the double intent. The more so, such ambitexterity seeks not to be revealed, and this is its chief departure from the coincidence, pun or clever play on words. Here, the merely clever slides into the sly, the amicable wink into that of the leer. It is particularly evident in marketing and politics that the ambitextrous is being employed, but beyond any specific usage thereof, there underlies the very ability for it to be used in the social structure as a whole. While the essential polysemy of language in general presents an overtone – something that desires to be known and thus attempts to take the fore – ambitexterity occurs as a converse to this, as in fact an undertone.

            One of many possible examples of the former in popular culture, amicable, clever but in an inoffensive manner, a wink only rather than a wink followed hard on by a nod, occurs in album titles. One need only recall to mind The Who’s 1971 Who’s Next, wherein we ourselves acknowledge the sense of it being the band’s next release, perhaps the implication that they as a band were in line for something or other – given all of the famous deaths and breakups of the period, for instance – as well as the visual jape of the band members themselves urinating on a concrete pillar and having done their business, asking the simple question of the consumer. A decade later saw the release of Rush’ live album Exit…Stage Left, where no less than three possible senses may be taken; the band leaving the stage, the stage itself has been left by the band, and the stage as a space is what is left over after the band’s exeunt. Hundreds of other examples might be cited, but the point is self-evident: such overtones of polysemy are meant to be understood and quite consciously so.

            It is otherwise with the ambitextrous. Though its use might be regarded as value-neutral, its underhandedness in both its method and its goal sabotages any possible ethic that could have seen to be arising therefrom. Given that I had the idea of the concept through writing what I hoped was no flippant flop – an oversize narrative with which I took great literary pains to avoid being a novel; the end result was more of a failed novel rather than something radically new – I also realized that a calculated effort to move the reader into another space of meaning through the unmarked vehicle of a canonical prose form was nothing more than a deception, however sophisticated or no. This instance can serve as a cautionary device for those future readers of St. Kirsten ­- sub-titled ‘the last novel’; and here there was authentic polysemy; at the time it was to be the final novel I myself would write, or if not, it was that previous, the ‘last’ one, the one beforehand, and thirdly, it was meant to be the final novel ever written by anyone; a concerted conceit but also a well-advised critique of the novelist in general; in a word, after this point there could no longer be a novel written at all – due out sometime in 2025. In principle, the creative effort must remain as the most focused, but also the smallest, version of the ambitextrous.

            For its truer homeland is that of propaganda, and in all of its forms. As Zizek has suggested, ‘only when one comes to believe in the truth-value of propaganda can it itself taken for the truth’. The latter is not as important as the former; one has to value the very idea of being misled. Why would anyone so value such a force? Does it seek to ever provide a suitable and tolerable veil for an oft-intolerable reality? Not quite, as this is rather the function of the social form itself, and we have understood this general principle at least since Durkheim. He suggests that ‘the air is no less heavy for the fact that we do not feel its weight’. Point taken: socialization is the most successful form of ‘propaganda’, if we are uncharitable. But if we are more objective, we understand that in order for any society to function at all, its cultural apparatus must be accepted in the majority by the majority. Its symbolic forms betray their function when investigated by either the native speaker or an outsider – even if the tools to ply such a trade must be learned formally and institutionally and are not, and never, a part of any culture’s primary socialization – and thus there is no enduring mystery about their presence. Much of historical analysis rests on these same pinions, and it is thus but a short step from dissecting a society of the past to one extant in our own time.

            The ambitexterity of ‘society’ as an abstraction rests in its ability to maintain a loyal fellowship, not a sycophantic follow-ship. Society and its polis are thus not ‘political’ in the specific sense of them being geared into the desire for power. Society has a power over us because we grant that authority to it through upholding cultural norms and participating in their corresponding forms of life. Culture trumps society just as history trumps morality. We are vehicles, in daily life, of both the passive symbols of our shared culture as well as active expressions thereof. This is why adolescence itself has at least two functions; it hones the adult’s skill in ‘maintaining the right’ in the face of youthful challenge, but at the same time, youth allows adulthood to make necessary adjustments to the social order, and in a most ad hoc manner. In this way, culture cleaves to itself the fluidity it needs to survive historical changes. It needs rebellion as much as it needs revolution, and it is up to the adult to winnow the one from the other other since the very incompleteness of socialization to be found in the adolescent disallows such persons themselves to make that same distinction.

            So far, we have seen the ambitextrous as a false mimesis of polysemy, as a calculated creative effort, and as an effect of how society itself functions through its symbolic forms. None of this is particularly underhanded, but in each of the foregoing examples, the undertonal quality is, nevertheless, present. Now we are better prepared to examine the purely propagandistic effect of the ambitextrous; this is not only its authentic practice but as well its highest self-regard. If successful in hoodwinking us into imagining that our way of life, our manner of unthought, our sense of right and our suite of prejudices are not simply the best way but in fact the only way for human beings to live, then it has served its highest master. Propaganda is least effective to any of these regards when it is served directly from the State. We are generally aware that this or that politician seeks to gain power and thence maintain it. Secondarily, the status of being someone who actually makes decisions is also in play. The vast majority of us have no such power, no such authority, and this is the majority explanation of why we tend to treat our children, and especially, our adolescents, so badly. Contrary to a fashionable script, this includes almost all white heterodox males as well; no power, no authority. The stage is thus set for the ambitextrous to take firm hold.

            Its leading edge is advertising. No matter the product being shilled, it is the landscape into which this item is set that holds the truer sale. We see non-whites, recently in a super-abundance which reflects nothing of their demographic ratio at large, but what are they doing? They are adding a pigment to an otherwise utterly Bourgeois setting. We see non-whites driving cars that in reality they cannot afford, living in gracious executive homes that are purchased by an insignificant number of their peers, spouting off in a tongue foreign to their ears, and driving their faux children to distraction by their ambitious social-climbing, made to look second nature in ads whilst in reality being a desperation of anxiousness. Just so, in order to remind us that this social order being portrayed is after all white at heart, we are yet called to witness white people doing all of the same things but mustered up with a sense of panache that non-whites are yet to master. With a salacious Schadenfreude, parents curb teenage desires in killjoy compartments, while very much in the background a reliable automobile is so noted. Reliability is itself being sold, in this sense, since teens are notoriously unreliable and in every way, and it is thus an adult’s responsibility to introduce them to a general responsibility, which apparently includes never even kissing one another before one marries. Being married is thus likened to driving a reliable car; the commodity fetish in this case is not about the product at all, but rather about a sensibility.

            The ambitextrous sells what is taken for common sense, all the while actually being a sensitivity over against both change and to the human imagination. It is a fear of desire, an anxiousness over personhood. It compels obedience not to the State nor even to society, both of which have their own, self-authenticating mechanisms of symbolic persuasion, as we have seen, but rather to our own worst selves; the self that masks selfishness with both a self-absorbed consumption and an aping role-play of the martinette, the one who mimics an authority he does not actually possess. That children are the chief victims of this masquerade troubles us not at all, for our own memories of childhood which have survived at all and which are not diluted by the sentimental – the major function of the ambitextrous in advertising is to present family life as the very home and hearth of human happiness, another unutterable lie given the abuse statistics, for one – remind we ourselves of being chattel. The fascism we endured was only overcome by us converting to the fascist figurehead. We now not only live the lie of ambitexterity, we are that lie.

            In this, the ambitextrous has successfully merged propaganda with socialization. In all of the efforts of the Tyro of the State, nothing political has ever come close to the rate of success to be found in contemporary advertising. And though we can find other spaces in which the ambitextrous is present – the schools are the most obvious example – in none do we find the sheer shameless showcase of purveying sentiment in the name of mere commodity. The latter is only a bauble, a representation of a hobby or the stuff of the dilettante. It is an ongoing astonishment, for the thinking person, to weekly witness the witless wonder of a way of life based upon so contented a self-delusion.

            G.V. Loewen is the author of over 60 books, and was professor of the interdisciplinary human sciences for over two decades.

Refusing and Misusing Philosophy

Refusing and Misusing Philosophy (Sophia Resented but Re-presented)

            There are a number of ways in which the history of consciousness is demeaned or misplaced. Some of these occur within the bonds of discursive thought itself, thereby taking their slatternly place within that same history, and less important, but still revealing of a wider antipathy and most often a willing ignorance of thinking, occurring outside of discourse entirely; in popular media or in casual conversation. Philosophy, the ‘love of wisdom’’, though ancient relative to known history, is yet very recent when compared with the tenure of an evolving human consciousness itself. It is quite likely that due to its own presentation of self – it must be studied formally by literate persons – and its own career – it has been both the privilege and purview of cultured elites more or less from the beginning – philosophy can be much more readily dismissed, not only by those deemed outside of its discursive circle, but the more so, those outside of discourse as a whole.

            And this denotation comes from both the philosopher and from the non-philosopher alike. We are apt to hear, from sports broadcasts to face-to-face shills, that the ‘philosophy of this coach’, or ‘our philosophy in making pizza is’, somehow how superior to all others. Today, however, there is far fewer excuses to be made, and correspondingly, far less rationales available for such, for philosophy to be treated as if it were a permanent resident of cloud cuckoo land, with its acolytes floating somewhere above the world and its more guttural realities. All the more so because the greatest of thinkers lived in that same world, the world of humans and our shared history, and the world which is both the origin and destination of Dasein as a ‘being-in-the-world’. There is no record of any figure in the canonical history of Western thought who turned away from that world, eschewing it in search of something other, better, higher, or deeper. Indeed, the insights of these persons, at once human like ourselves and as well, persons who pushed themselves to discover their fullest humanity and for some, even humaneness, came from their engagement with said world, and not at all from disengaging from it. It is of more than mere picaresque interest to read what can be known of the philosopher’s lives, from their encounters with other important figures, to their interactions with the polis and with rulers, both positive – Aristotle tutoring Alexander – and negative – Socrates being executed by the State – or yet their daily rounds – Kant providing Königsberg with a consistent timepiece on his way to the tavern. In our own times, these vignettes are generally more gentle, but not always. One need only compare Bourdieu or Derrida’s curricular work for the French department of education and Scruton’s writing of libretti and novels with Foucault’s reckless sexual misadventures and his ultimate AIDS diagnosis and Ricoeur’s wartime incarceration in a labour camp, to be reminded that the world contains every possibility, even for the thinker.

            The first thing to recall to oneself, if one is feeling some resentment against thinking in general and philosophy in particular, is that these figures were and are human like ourselves. They live in the same world, are challenged by the same travails, endure many of the same hardships and feel the same fleeting joys. There is indeed no possibility of becoming a thinker at all if one abandons one’s own humanity. The chief difference between the thinker and the one who elects to avoid most of the confrontation between the present and the past and that between self and other, is that the former makes what is already his own, his ownmost. The apical leader of the guild, Socrates, in his defense against his coming execution, famously uttered that same guild’s motto: ‘the unexamined life is not worth living’. This examination can, it is true, take a number of forms, but all such roads lead to an awareness which is simply unavailable in day-to-day life. Without suggesting a morality of mundanity, one can at least say that this is how it must be. The social world runs on its rails, and needs to run on them if society is itself not to falter. This is also not to say that any reflection which becomes necessary from time to time when such rails no longer function as they once did should be the sole responsibility of a few august figures, to be consulted as did the ancients their oracles and haruspices. For the philosopher is no mystagogue; she is, more accessibly and much less mysteriously, a resource person. In this way, she is no different from the plumber; a professional who has learned a body of professionalized know-how. What the philosopher adds to this contractual availability is that her skill set is not oriented to a specific task-at-hand; philosophy is not about ‘fixing’ things.

            Rather, the thinker performs a number of functions which are generally outside the daily expectations we have of ourselves and others:

            1. The thinker opens up the questions of the day: the general rubric here is that if everyone appears to agree on something, whatever its cultural content or political fashion, the thinker deliberately steps away from this sensus communis and says ‘are you sure about this?’. Such agreements are all too easy to find in our contemporary world, for by way of them persons and well as governments can carry the day their way. Hence the role of the philosopher in this first sense is that of questioner, doubter, critic and analyst.

            2. The thinker is as well tasked with querying our shared history. For general agreement upon this and that does not only occur with reference to the living present and the worldviews which remain extant for those who live in that present. It is for the historian to interrogate the contents of history, but the philosopher must ask, more penetratingly perhaps, what is history itself? Add to this the question concerning which history is the preferred one and why so, and what are the implications of viewing history in the rather Whiggish manner of vanilla verisimilitude. Instead of this, the thinker understands the presence of the past in our lives to be the thesis in an ongoing dialectic. It is what has been and what has been done, over against the new and the very concept of the future. So, secondly, the thinker’s vocation demands that she live that dialectic in search of a novel synthesis.

            3. The philosopher also clarifies what people already know and seeks to communicate this ideally limpid vision to the world. Gadamer specifically notes this third aspect of what philosophy is supposed to be doing, in view of the many sources of obscurity and obscurantism which reign mostly unchallenged; the State, media, schools, families, the church, and even what used to be referred to simply as gossip; misinformation and yet disinformation, much of it in our own time purveyed through digital media. In order to confront such deliberate obfuscation, the main challenge for the thinker is to not present more of the same! It is often a fair cop to suggest that the philosopher gets carried away by his own insights, to the detriment of being able to be both clear and indeed insightful, in a manner almost all could comprehend.

            4. Given that obscurity and the deliberate narrowing of discourse also happens within the history of thought, a fourth task for the philosopher is to be constantly vigilant against the tendency of intellectuals to flaunt their apparently superior historical abilities. What she finds, in doing so, is that those who have closed off access to the history of consciousness have done so by themselves ignoring or refusing that very history. ‘Academic’ examples unfortunately abound, from the mathematically inclined thinkers and logicians declaring that ‘anything before Frege’ is irrelevant, to the ‘third-wave’ feminists who declare the same thing for male authorship as a whole, to the Marxists for whom Hobbes is the true beginning of thought, or yet the ‘modernist’ who dismisses anything written before Hume and Vico. If thinking was strictly an ivory tower pursuit, a disconnected discourse would be its result, with its practitioners overly and overtly specialized to the extent of becoming ignorant of thought both human and historical alike.

            This is indeed what we see, in the majority, in the university today, where the students of even their own disciplines are often unaware of that specific discourse’s history. Psychology is particularly at fault here, but the other social sciences are close behind in their own self-willing ignorance. The humanities fare somewhat better simply due to their being understood as in themselves historical disciplines, and thus more closely related to philosophy. When Ricoeur states that ‘the history of philosophy is itself a philosophical endeavor’, this is a testament to, and an acknowledgment of, for one, Dilthey’s enduring contribution to thinking; that we must include ourselves in our studies, that the human being is not merely the vehicle for an otherwise transcendent consciousness but in fact is its home and hearth: we are philosophy embodied. The only thing that separates the human species from its animal cousins is our distinct duo of reason and imagination, the two essential aspects of thought. It matters not a whit how this uniqueness came about, only how it has enabled us to become what we are and how we utilize this astonishing ability in our own time, with a view to a collective future. In light of this, one might be tempted to add a fifth point to the philosophical star: could it also be said that the thinker’s duty is encapsulated in his reminder that each and all of us must orient ourselves only towards what may come in our shared futurity?

            It may at first seem a contradiction to be so concerned about history, and about coming to know the history of thought, and yet at once state that our entire goal must be about the future. But in fact, the whole function of having a past is to allow us the perspective necessary to walk forward; the past does not welcome us back within it, for this defeats its elemental purpose as resource and as the beginning of wisdom. Philosophy is not about the past, even if, necessarily and by definition, the vast bulk of its wisdom hails from another time to our own. The philosopher reaches into the history of consciousness with her mind, on our behalf, and thereby brings back to us its enduring self-understanding. By acting at once as an historian, a critic, a voice of clarity and elocution, and as a discursive dialogician, the thinker serves his culture in the most adept manner imaginable. No other figure in the human career has had such demands, but no other has brought to them such abilities. In the end, however, philosophy is not about philosophers, and it is Merleau-Ponty who has stated its case perhaps most pointedly: “Philosophy is not a body of knowledge; it is the vigilance that does not let us forget the source of all knowledge.”

            G.V. Loewen is the author of over 60 books. He is a social philosopher and ethicist in the traditions of phenomenology and hermeneutics and was professor of the interdisciplinary human sciences for over two decades.