Tag: Books

‘Chronological Homogenization’ – Why Reality Feels Off These Days

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Philosophy, Psychology, Social CommentaryLeave a comment

There was a time when people were solidly grounded in the customs of their eras.

Today the internet and mass communication has flattened that.

The homogenization of culture, language, and fashion has been widely discussed.

But this flattening goes deeper.

It has disrupted psychic development.

It has homogenized chronology.

By  making everything present it mutes the past.

Constant real time updates don’t allow for temporal crystallization.

The period in which a unique spaceo-temporal personality capable of gravitas of distinct development is becoming less and less possible.

Is it any wonder that people are complaining of a ‘vibe shift.’

Things just seem ‘off.’

There are many possible factors for this modern angst.

Shifting social norms, religious decline, economic uncertainty, wars, and rumors of wars all make a contribution.

Throughout all these there is that pernicious thread of homogenized chronology.

It is the least noticeable but most powerful driver of the colloquially felt ‘vibe shift.’

There is nothing more uncanny than sameness. While synchronized swimming is beautiful it has a sinister counterpart in the proverbial white robed cult where everyone speaks with the same inflection. Sameness unsettles.

When each generation has a very similar attitude, style of dress, speaking pattern things become uncanny.

We are seeing this sameness, this lack of distinction, this absence of the gravity of having embodied experiences deeply and locally more and more.  

There are positives to the global village that gives rise to this.

We can learn about a great many things and share experiences.

There is a monumental history spanning amount of information and insight that we can all draw from instantly.

Yet in order to fully reap the benefits of the information age and escape the uncanny valley of the ‘vibe shift’ we must gain awareness.

We need to make a conscious effort to live in the present.

This involves developing a past.

It involves consciously developing that past.

Where before this was more or less automatic it now requires special focus.

In order to develop and maintain the sense of self that is capable of more than just remakes and nostalgia one must practice solid habits.

Being deeply engaged in music, writing, philosophy, and the sciences is no longer the haughty aspiration of an overambitious ‘renaissance man’ but accessible and indispensable to the psychic sanity of every individual.

Some craft or at least a deep sense of fascination and willingness to remember to cultivate a sense of distinct continuity in the constant flux of instant updates will also suffice.

Writing is a Superpower – A Thousand Words is How You See the Picture – The Operation of Geist

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Politics, Psychology, Social Commentary, The Fractal Journal, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Writing is a superpower. Writing by hand produces a deep engagement. Typing is a miracle of efficiency. Recording videos and voice clips can also be thought of as a form of writing.

But writing in the sense that is being done here on the page…is special.

Writing broadly speaking can be defined as the organization of thought, the cataloguing of experience, and the engine of idea generation.

It may be a phenomenon peculiar to me. Or to people like me.

Those who by temperament and upbringing place high value on reading and writing.

But I feel that one does not have the full range of human experience if one neglects the practice of writing.

To fully honor the peculiar machinery of Homo Sapiens is to put it through its paces. We can in my opinion be described as memory machines. This is not a reductionist take being proposed but rather an angle that elucidates Geist.

A human life can be thought of as limit defined unfolding. Or more poetically blossoming.

We are limited by time, by geography, by upbringing, by culture, genes, etc.

These things create the basic unit known as individual who through experience expands into the peculiarities of personality.

This blossoming is profoundly and particularly fostered by the complementary soils of reading and writing.

Why is this so?

Language.

Mathematics is called the universal language but there is much more qualia to the human experience than the quantitative business of ‘maths.’

Music or audible ‘maths’ adds a touch of qualia and gets closer to essential humanity by being a profoundly temporal thing. In simpler terms..in honoring time…through only being intelligible in time…music gets closer to essential Geist.

Pictorial representation, paintings, and the moving pictures known as films are more closely akin to the Episodic operations of Geist. Even in a still painting the passage of time is implicit and there is an idea capture of vast arrays of qualia. Again, I must simplify…Pictures are worth a thousand words.

But a thousand words are how you see the picture.

That is why language is so peculiarly crucial to humanity to spirit.

It is simultaneously bound by time and transcendent of time.

We are playing with the idea that human life can be thought of as limit defined unfolding.

Can you see how the pieces fit?

How perhaps this is why there exists the verse ‘In the Beginning was the Word’?

Both in time and out of time is language. A single word, or phrase, can link experiences broad enough to be shared by a nation and specific enough to the singular time bound locutions of the individual.

That is why writing is a superpower.

Writing or the cultivation of language is indispensable to a fulfilled human experience.

The richer your storehouse of words of individually experienced glimpses of collectively accrued insights of essential truths the greater is your capacity for ideas, engagement, sorrow joy…experience.

That is why it is so lamentable that we’ve so pedestalized simplicity that discussions of a literacy crisis have begun.

Pithy, business friendly, efficient means of expression have their places. But pithy, business friendly, efficient means barely scratch the surface of human experience.

We needlessly impoverish ourselves and our societies with this insistence on simplification.

This simplification does not simplify. It does not make us more folksy, approachable, intelligible, humble, or efficient.

This is profoundly evident in the fact that our national discourse, our films, books, musics, and personal interactions have suffered.

A suffering often manifesting itself as awkwardness, angst, and pale imitations in the form of nostalgia and remakes.

This is by no means an elitist screed. There is much to be said for oral traditions, for the simple experience of merely living, for the profound insights that unlettered men and women can and do bring into the lives of their families, friends, and societies.

But writing does exist. And simply because we have good folksy wisdom filled people, pithy entertainers, and terse thrillers doesn’t mean we can’t…have…that we don’t absolutely need MORE.

More exists…whether or not we choose to engage with more is up to us on both the individual and societal level.

Considering that we are memory machines I’d suggest we do more engaging.

If you find the description of memory machines dubious then consider the aforementioned popularity of nostalgia and remakes.

We iterate our way through memories…that is how our spirit…our Geist operates.

‘Do this in the remembrance of me.’ Said Christ.

There is a reason that so many of the things we hold most profound make mention of memory.

Memory is integral to our humanity.

Language is the thing that makes memory, intelligible,communicable and ripe for harvest.

Writing is the deep, physical, and spiritual practice of language.

That is why writing is a superpower.

It is a superpower that many of us have, some of us must get, and all of us must exercise!




Michael Crichton – What Makes Great SciFi – The Future

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, VlogLeave a comment

A brief look at Michael Crichton’s approach to storytelling. Followed up by an exploration of what makes a great yarn. Let me know what you think!

The music used in this video is my own. The intro entirely so. The second with my jam band and some borrowing from Bach Preludes.

I also make music! https://soundcloud.com/alex-weir-12291520

I hope you enjoyed the video!

Help buy me time to make more content! You can use Patreon or Subscribestar. Linked below!

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter One: The Cambridge Gable Scene (‘Gator is Waitin’)

On By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Chapter 1.1: Sketch of Sam Monroe

‘Chapter 1.2:’ The Cajun Prayer

This is a book that I will upload as I write it. This is still technically part of Chapter One like the rest of the entries.

Chapter One – The Cambridge Gable Scene

‘Gator is Waitin’

The mid-February evening grew chill quickly. I shivered and pondered as to how our retreating ‘boy in blue’ could sit so comfortably, on the faded green metal bench outside Pierce’s practice.

Graham had fallen into a neat little heap of lanky limbs and golden Afro soon after the dramatic episode. Currently, he was being comforted by a nurse (who despite being a tad older) still retained that magnetic auburn haired sort of charm common among the locals. Lucky dog….

Fabre was a picture of calm as he sat there gazing into the middle distance with a particularly offensive clove cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“What in the hell was all that about?” Pierce queried.

The Gallic sheriff remained impassive. His cold grey eyes held none of their former mischief.

The doctor was a reasonable man but his patience did have a limit. After the span of a quarter hour he remarked sternly.

“Well, come on man! Remember your Norman heritage. The blood of William courses through your veins and you would let a little of the old country spook you like that?”

It took some minutes still before Fabre responded.

“In Louisiana there are very wild places…”

“And many Alsatian fools,” Pierce remarked wryly. He had an odd habit of simultaneously praising and dressing people down.

“Yes, yes, I am a fool, and an Alsatian. But better to have my blood and my folly then to remain composed through that…”

Another long pause.

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t gather what ‘that’ is?”

This pause was even longer. I couldn’t suppress a yawn despite my interest. There was something dreamy, hypnotic in these hills. It was as if at every moment they threatened to drown you in some strange ancient honey.

“’That’ is voodoo…mssr”

Pierce laughed derisively. “Come off it man, you don’t even go to church.” It was now that I noticed that Pierce had an accent too. My Carolina ears were keen for the foreign sound of Yank inflection. And Yank he was. He was less a son of Kentucky than I.

“I tell you the truth. You have the benefit of your education and distance as buffer. But this is…this is old stuff…this is not drugs…I’ve seen it before too…but not like this…”

“You are a superstitious fool.” Pierce scoffed. “The fair haired boy was having a pull at your leg. It’s that Irish mother of yours.”

“That was just a rumor I am as Cajun as they come. Perhaps too Cajun…I have hot blood….a bad temper…you see…that is…”

I thought I spied a moment of panic in that expressive face.

He puffed at his cigarette for a time before he continued:

“That is voodoo mssr. That is very bad stuff…I have nothing on it…”

“Pfft…OK…fine it’s voodoo what did the blasted lad say?”

I was beginning to grow as weary of the pauses as Doc Pierce.

“He say…he say…’the gator is waiting.’”

It was a bizarre expression.

Yet, something about the way that the officer said it that sent a shiver through my spine. I noticed that Pierce was suddenly subdued as well. Though not for long.

“Ok and what does that mean exactly.”

“It means I am lost.”

This statement was followed by another litany of papist prayers. Latin, English, French…what I eventually came to recognize as Creole intermingled in a fluid entreaty to what of God may still reside in a world of drive throughs and porno.

“Look, I think it very touching that you’ve suddenly found the Lord but he helps those who help themselves. So what is this gator business?”

Officer Fabre used what remained of his initial clove to light the second.

“As, I have said it means I am lost. That was the end of Jack Montreux and it will be the end of me.”

“That, is a long story doc…”

Image credit: https://fineartamerica.com/featured/haunted-houseboat-ray-congrove.html

The Cajun Prayer

On By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Related image

This book is dedicated to Terrence McKenna, who possessed a poets heart, and though I disagree on many points of sophistry…all perhaps…. save his sense of Wonder and dedicated service to that sacred art. May he dream strange dreams forever and adventure where he may! …For truth be told there is no such thing as never or decay.

This is chapter one for the book whose introduction you can read here: The Sketch of Sam Monroe

It’s an adventure story that eventually ends up in the jungle, inspired by Doyle, Crichton, Lovecraft, McKenna, and the true story of Percy Fawcett.

Disclaimer: Contains strong language and adult themes. It is not my intention to promote drug use. If you wish to partake in countries and states where it is legal and you are past the age of twenty-five that is your business. I choose twenty-five because that’s about the time your brain stops being all soft and squishy and before that happens you don’t need drugs. 

Cajun Prayer

“What the hell was in that?”

“Dude, it was just weed, plain old Mary Jane, Mary never hurt a fly.”

“He was foaming at the mouth….”

“Who knows what he took beforehand, either way, let’s not…”

At this point, a tall precise-looking man seeming to be about sixty years of age strode into the room.

It was a very odd hospital. One of those cramped country places. The little squarish chairs in the waiting room had that burnt orange look which reeked of the seventies. The metal bars beneath the armrests were cold on this Kentucky evening.

“I really can’t find anything wrong with your friend. Nothing biological anyway. I lack a lot of the instruments I’d need to do a proper battery of tests. Would you boys like it if I sent him off to Louisville? I have a driver on hand just for that purpose…”

‘No…’ a few of us chimed in. We couldn’t risk it.

“Well, right now he’s catatonic and I really can’t do much except run an IV and monitor his vitals.”

“He’ll come around I’m sure,” Lucas said with barely disguised guilt.

“What’s going on? I never really got a good grip on where you boys are from… I’ve never seen you in town. You don’t look like hunters, so are you campers, hikers what…?”

“We’re local,” I said.

“Mmm…I know everybody in this town, even old Ira Basset….”

“Well, we keep to ourselves mostly….we’re…artists….”

“Oh, so you’re private sorts, prematurely retired from the wild world into the rustic Kentucky hills…”

“Yeah…that’s one way of putting it….”

“Or could this be it.” The doctor threw a small plastic baggy into my lap. The contents of which I instantly recognized.

‘Shit…’

I heard footsteps outside.

“Well, Officer Fabre looks like you arrived at the perfect moment. Have you ever seen guiltier men?”

‘Shit…’

“Heh, o they’re guilty all right…mostly of being the most stereotypical heads to ever walk the earth, and what’s that he’s got…” The barrel-chested officer’s eyes narrowed as he took in the contents I was awkwardly grasping between shaky fingers.

“Toss, it here, actually don’t….that’s cocaine…which isn’t very legal….” He had a slight accent that I couldn’t quite place. And his tone of voice suggested perpetual amusement. He began to jauntily swing a set of handcuffs.

“So whose is it..?” he asked, looking from one of us to the other, “who am I taking to meet Bubba?”

“I found it on the patient.” The doctor said.

“So you did, Doc, but I gotta take somebody in, I’ve only got two cells, one of which holds Bubba, and he don’t find no sport in a body that don’t holler….”

The guy was fucking with us.

“I’ve got money, you know,” Lucas burst in.

“Aha, yea…I mean I don’t have to be Sherlock fuckin’ Holmes to know that if you have coke in Foley…you’re a walking trust fund…”

“Are you just gonna accept a bribe like that!” The doctor exploded.

“Well, doc, did you like identifying Mrs. Belmont’s corpse very much, or that endless stream of rotted gums?”

The doctor looked glum.

“Yeah…one thing about Foley…The State of Kentucky…Uncle Sam…and even Jesus Christ himself do not give one solemn shit much less a penny to keep meth heads from shooting little old ladies. I need ammo, I need vests, I need to feed my dam squad, hell Patrick doesn’t even have proper boots anymore…so….does 15k sound reasonable?”

“More than reasonable,” Lucas replied.

“WHERE do you boys have this kind of cash….” The doctor was incredulous. “Shit…you’re runners aren’t you!” There was something odd in the way that the word shit sat in the mouth of such a gentlemanly looking man. He was truly flustered by his suspicion to react that way.

“Nah….doc…they ain’t runners…they’re faggy little college boys…and I guess that there must be a god after all because they’re the fucking solution to my problem….”

It was at this point that Graham burst into the room with a wild look in his eyes. The IV hanging in an awkward grotesque sort of way from his left arm. He gazed directly at the cop with the most unnaturally sardonic expression I’ve ever seen. It made my blood run cold.

Graham stood there swaying from side to side just gazing directly at the officer. Then he spoke some other language. I guess it was French or something.

For a moment Officer Fabre was stock still. Then shrieking wildly he ran from the room screaming something like…

Jay vous saley,
Marie,

they grasss

Le Signor

ist avec vous.

Le signor is avec vous!

“Get back here you cowardly frog!” Doctor Pierce exclaimed at the retreating man.

Then regaining some of his composure he said,

“What the hell am I going to do with you fucking kids!”

Forever Fluid – The Strange Case of Renewable Limits (Chapter One – Intro)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Environment, Philosophy, Technology, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Chapter One – State of the Universe? 

Image result for thales

Has Thales been vindicated?

Perhaps this thought is owed merely to my own meager apprehension of physics but perhaps not. In recent times scientists have attempted to resolve two major models of the universe by proposing that it may, in fact, be fluid.

The cosmos has a flow. Groovy. This appeals to the hippie in me. Alan Watts being a patron saint of the moneyed unwashed once said that there are two sorts of folks. Those who believe that the universe is prickles and those who believe that it is goo. This, of course, refers to the famous dichotomy between artists and scientists (and everything else).

E.O. Wilson also touched on this in Consilience, painting the picture of the striving between those who see order and wish to make chaos, and those who see chaos and wish to make order.

Watts in his languid laughing way pointed to the obvious need for both sorts of people and for each person to strive to contain (retain) an admixture of both.

“The universe is gooey prickles and prickly goo!”

The interplay of order and chaos is of course fluid in nature. It is the eternal binary motion, the tick, and tock, that the east has colloquialized as yin and yang.

So yes, in the same way, that water reflects the faces that gaze upon it, it may reflect the core nature of the universe itself.

These are the introductory paragraphs to Chapter one of my book: Forever Fluid – The Strange Case of Renewable Limits

This first chapter should be completed in the next two weeks now that I’ve found some time.

The book itself will likely be published via Amazon or a similar service by the end of this year (or 2019 depending on circumstances). It will likely be an ebook but that’s subject to change.

Thanks for stopping by. I really appreciate your time and hope that I’m able to bring some value to your lives.

Best wishes,

Alex V. Weir