Philosophical Doodles – Musings on the Virtue Signal

Image result for virtue signal


Ethics is the philosophy of morals. It is a discipline that everyone should master. A discipline whose mastery matters now more than ever.

It is so vastly important that the world depends upon it.

If you just asked yourself, “well Whaddaya mean by world?” Then congratulations you’ve engaged in philosophy. You’ve done so by delving into the realm of one of its chief concerns, namely, scope.

It is in this way, by degrees, that we will stop falling into the trap of mere moral preening and actually get about the business of morality.

Morality here is not meant in any schoolmarmish or religious sense. Nor is it meant in a purely practical sense. Morality is more like an imperative towards truth. That of a very particular truth. That truth being consistency, a very particular consistency, the consistency of good.

At this point, we come to perhaps the oldest philosophical question. What is good?

That is beyond the scope of this essay. It is perhaps even beyond the scope of human reason. But we do philosophy precisely for the purpose of transcending human reason. This is done iteratively throughout the ages in erratic fits and starts. But it is done.

And it must continue to be done.

This is because moral conundrums persist as moral conundrums evolve. If we continue to hunt them with the same spears and snares we may end up starving.

There is ample evidence of modern moral starvation.

For instance, virtue signaling is a modern plague. And it must be eradicated.

But to eradicate it one must be familiar with its etiology and when one is thus acquainted he finds that it’s not a modern plague at all. He finds this and another curious truth. The very people decrying virtue signaling are themselves, virtue signallers. Virtue signallers who signal their virtue by decrying virtue signaling.

How so? Because theirs is a folk ethic. Not necessarily via any sort of philosophical ignorance. No. But rather via its toe-dipping malaise.

What is meant by the virtue signal is a behavior. It is a form of preening with all the evolutionary bric-a-brac in tow. One wishes to be seen in the best light possible. As the healthiest, strongest, and most conscientious member of a social species. And thus they display the feathers they think will win approval. They trumpet the things that sound virtuous. Doing so without any investigation and merely for the thrill of grooming.

Doubtless, such a limbic behavior is nothing new. Doubly doubtless that it is limited to the proponents of a particular ideology.

How curious then that the label of virtue signaller is most vociferously ascribed to a very particular sort of person. The sort of person who is very likely a lefty and very likely consciously or not an adherent of postmodernism and is either in whole or part relativistic in their ethical outlook.

Do these people virtue signal? Granted that they are hominids…doubtless.

Do they virtue signal more than others, or more precisely is the virtue signal more intrinsic to their school of thought than to others? These questions of scope and definition are also beyond the problem domain of this essay.

What is pertinent here is that those that levy these allegations not only trumpet their own moral positions with giddy abandon but have devalued a time-honored survival strategy.

This essay began with the bold claim that the fate of the world depends on eImage result for dr strangelovethics.

Since one of the most influential species in the world is a very peculiar sort of hominid. The only sort that can post philosophical doodles to their blogs, then it follows that homo blogious, whose cousins have prehensile digits perched alarming close to triggers for nuclear armageddon learn to get along.

Such learning will not be achieved by ignoring the nature of humanity.

It will come by understanding the mechanisms that make us tick. And how such deeply ingrained limbic processes still continue to influence those of us most fastidiously on guard against them.

This is not to say that one shouldn’t call out empty gestures or hypocrisy. Rather it is to encourage us all to take a closer look at our own views and the views of our opponents.

In so doing we will find that virtue signaling is inescapable.

So perhaps the solution is not to eradicate virtue signaling. Just like castration is not a remedy for promiscuity. So is the excising of a major organ of memetic reproduction not a remedy for moral masturbation.

Since, like sexual reproduction, the virtue signal is inevitable; perhaps, instead of being puritanical we should learn, as we have with all other base impulses – to be civilized about it.


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Plastic Rose – The Changing Nature of Memory


Isn’t it interesting or perhaps more fittingly alarming that we have precious few markers of passage? A letter is such a finite thing. Perhaps no more finite than a tweet but certainly more tangibly finite. Because the leaf, the bit of tree, it will yellow and curl and return to earth. The words that it held in scripts so reflective of the man and mood that etched it, they are so personal, and thus so exquisitely temporal. You can picture these textures in the grand tapestry of time. Yes, of such markers there are precious few.

The modems hum, the screens glow, the constant podcast prattle. These innovations are worth celebrating. Yet as much as they inspire they alter the nature of inspiration. What is the qualia of this novelty?

What sort of poems, novels, philosophies, and sciences will flow from the omnipresent memory of machines? From these mirrors into which we can instill our favorite reflections and gaze thereupon to our heart’s content – can we expect an accurate picture? And if high definition does indeed provide accuracy is it fertile? Or is it merely a reflection of saliencies that serve onanistic solipsism.

It is difficult to tell how we will change. It is perhaps impossible to know how altered we already are. It is definitely impossible to know how altered we were at the advent of the transistor. For such knowledge is ephemeral. It is gone with those that possessed it.

It is precisely this thing, ephemerality, that we must watch.

For a flowers beauty is in the rareness and brevity of its blossom.

A beauty which the plastic rose destroys.


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Reaching for Content in the Spirit of Walt

 


I was actually really set to record some music that I thought would be decent. But then I got muscle spasms/cramps in my arms because I am a girly man and will never be governer of California. So instead I did a shitty guitar jam with my crampy arms and then had a go at Jack Bickham’s 38 Common Fiction Writing Mistakes.

Interestingly enough as I was clicking around my tabs this article showed up:

https://getpocket.com/explore/item/how-to-keep-criticism-from-sinking-your-confidence-walt-whitman-and-the-discipline-of-creative-self?utm_source=pocket-newtab

I haven’t read it yet but I’m fairly certain from the volumes in my ex-girlfriends house that Walt Whitman is the cunt who wrote Blades of Grass and punched his editors. I was going to invoke him as the sort of person who wouldn’t give a damn about 38 most common anythings. But temper it by saying O come on, you can’t just shit out whatever you want…

And then I shat out whatever I wanted.

So hail Bacchus and Hail Whitman.

Cheers!


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Warm n Fuzzy

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So Coast to Coast just came on across my old mid 90’s radio my grandad now uses to listen to conservative talk radio.

Gave me a warm n fuzzy feeling.

Same as when it came on in the wee hours of the morning as I was driving through a college town looking for a lady friend that I found asleep in her car outside of some kinda hall.

I always know when people are being dumb somewhere. And Art Bell is always there to tell me that the ghosts, aliens, and alien ghosts that tell me these things like some sorta cosmic Lassie are probably real.

Warm n fuzzy I tell ya. Warm and fuzzy.

Like a Sasquatch.

Image result for sasquatch
Though many of em are known to be smooth and cool.

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Tidy (Poem)

Image result for tides

So clean and so neat

Doesn’t it just insist

That there is a steady beat

That things persist

But the static on the screen

Seems less uncanny

Than what is plainly seen

All or any

Tidy

On the shelf

Tides are never tidy

You’re talking to yourself

Slip and fall into a pool of summary

Drowning for a grip

In a sea of solipsistic symmetry

Till there is a slip

And a billion points of light

Reveal the origin

The tidiness of sight

Complete in shattered pieces of a glass of gin


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Jack was always last…

Image result for wheatfield


“There’s nothing out there,” I said stepping across decript floorboards.

They creaked in protest.

“Ok,” I responded. “I guess there’s some wheat in the field. Though it’s wilted.”

The wind shuffled the flies on the brick windowsill.

“What? You thought they were paper airplanes?” I chuckled.

It was cold. It was cold for a few nights now. I wondered where Maria was.

I looked at the tracks. The train was still. I wondered what it was waiting for.

My father’s watch was broken. I left it open where the flies had been and let the rising sun glint off the face.

It’s reflection traveling in the direction of Novgorod.

A crow cawwed in the distance.

It must have been a week since I’d gone up the stairs. I judged as much by the empty tins clustered like crown jewels in the corner.

I fiddled with the cross round my neck.


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Cheap Perfume (Poem)

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Barely breathin

Through the incense

That’s hidin

The cigarettes

And the mysteries

of the Orient

Are just histories

Wrapped and bent

Dropping into ashtrays

Just behind the whiskey glass

Rouding days

Up with tallies made of grass

You’re dirt

My dirty cheap perfume

And you hurt

With your strange silver smile in the gloom

Can’t dispel

That memory

The smell

Is too deep in my skin and my hair

Now there’s nothing left to do

But sit in the rain

With a head full of you

This much is plain

Drink in the dew

Till the morning unfolds

Like the pictures you drew

Still that perfume holds

Till I drown just to wash off

Must become a river

With a life like a moth

Dusty waters deliver


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There is no Homunculus (Vlog)


I’m a simple man with a simple lager and proabably should tackle less complicated things. But the more I drink the less I fear looking like an idiot.

So….here goes…

https://www.pnas.org/content/116/10/3948

“Modularity refers to the idea that mental phenomena arise from the operation of multiple distinct processes, not from a single undifferentiated one. Inspired by evidence in experimental psychology, by Chomskian linguistics, and by new computational theories in philosophy of mind, Fodor theorized that human cognition is structured in a set of lower-level, domain-specific, informationally encapsulated specialized modules and a higher-level, domain-general central system for abductive reasoning with information only flowing upward vertically, not downward or horizontally (i.e., between modules). He also formulated stringent criteria for modularity.”


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The Cottage – Chapter Thirty One – (Short Story)

Image result for kentucky goblin
                                                                                              Hellier                                                                        Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six |Part Seven |Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen | Part Fifteen | Part Sixteen |Part Seventeen | Part Eighteen |Part Nineteen | Part Twenty | Part Twenty One | Part Twenty Two | Part Twenty Three | Part Twenty Four | Part Twenty Five | Part Twenty Six |Part Twenty Seven |Part Twenty Eight | Part Twenty Nine | Part Thirty

There amongst the stones he lay again. And again he had no thought. And again he found it good. But now there was no fear. There was no apprehension.

For he had reckoned the symmetries.

The propitiations had been made. The ginseng laid. The feng shui done.

He rose and strode without fear through the dark.

It was not sight that guided him.

Not sight but knowledge. Knowledge laid down from the foundation of the world. And not this paltry sphere with its pregnant groans of promise. But the world as the breath of God. The first inhilation of divine will animated his profane skeleton and reanimated that wick so long dormant with the idle cares of flesh.

A bear approached, reared on its legs, and Jim looked upon it. With a whimper it fled.

Everywhere he tred the world grew still. And the faeries followed.

The sunken lake in the heart of the mountain swallowd him whole. His drowning was the sweetest whiskey. He was drunk with the music of the spheres.

Sinking to the magenta bottom he drug the fiends along on invisibile threads of covenant.

For a sacrifice of the elder blood was a rite beyond bargaining.

There within the twinkling madness in the chasing of Ariadness thread Jim was free to dance and to bind in rhythm those maggots that would have their feast too soon.

Their will dissipated and the ghastly forms returned to stardust to lonesome fade till the appointed hour.

There he hung in a whirling vortex that would surely have shattered the earthen vessel that he had so recently abdicated.

‘Fuck.’ Jim screamed through the ether. ‘How the fuck am I going to make it back?!’ At the Jim shaped grain of dust clinging mouth agape to the cold silt.


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Invoking Apollo (Poem)

Image result for apollo


O you somber

There in myriad ringing notes

O

Cast forth from Crete

As the eleventh hour floats

Abdicate mere merriment

Be fleet

In bending sail with wind of sacrament

Angel of weeping

Mourn now Dionysus as his blossom wilts

Raise your crown and kiss Persephone

Her silver foots procession

Be friendly unto us for we have torn free

Our beards at a season that knows not youth’s possession

Gird our loins incline our ears to listen

To the subtle symmetry of spheres

How the tears they glisten

With the awry wearing of eternal years

Yet the heart is young

Beating fast

Thundering strong

O to last

Our hope is in you – your song

Thumos – hold fast

To you o minstrel at the gate

O solemn master singer

The hour is late

Give us strenth to ever linger


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