Show Us Your Utter Lack of Self-Awareness

He decries narcissists, trying to control how we see them in light of the evident failure of his effort to control their behavior.


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Nietzsche Thinks Some Might Be Less Eager for Truth

"Sometimes"? Freddy, seriously?

We live in a world devoted to pretending (essentially a massive playground for self-dramatists), where one avenue of pretending is to feign a thirst for truth. To shift metaphors (though none of this is as metaphorical as you'd imagine), it's a multiplex filled with movies, any number of which are about the swashbuckling  effort to transcend cinema! This is why I spend so much time distinguishing seeming from reality.

Almost no one genuinely wants genuine truth. I don't mean 10%, or 1%, or .1%. It's more like .0001%. A handful of perverse kooks genuinely thirst for truth, even if it's not good news; even if it doen't make them look good; even if being a "truth-knower" brings more punishment than reward.

Why punishment? Because being a truth-knower firmly associates you with the thing 99.9999%  desperately recoil from. We say we want a breath of fresh air, but we run berserk with the caulking gun at first sign of a draft.

I hope you understand that, by truth, I don't mean "That dress is ugly" or "you're fat". "You'll never get a raise" or "your wife hates you" or "that moustache makes you look like a porn cameraman". I'm not talking about being a dick, I'm talking about understanding deep things about who we are and what we're doing here, and offering these truths to those we see suffering to help them feel better...and then being crucified for it.

Why crucified? I once wrote:

Those who've shifted perspective and tasted some truth may feel poised to heal the world. But such people have historically been swiftly slated for crucifixion. Because if you imagine that the truth really heals, the joke's on you. You’re like the lunatic in the audience who rushes to the stage to protect Caesar from the stabbing knives. There's no denying that falsehood would be thus dispelled, tragedy prevented, and the sham nature of the enterprise entirely illuminated. Good job on that. However, you'll have ruined the experience for all present.

In a MMORPG world, eagerly devoted to drama and affectation, the truth - with all its vaunted power of illumination - is as welcome as glaring house lights suddenly switching on mid-show, shocking dark-adapted eyes and spoiling the deliberate suspension of disbelief.

I deliberately flipped viewpoint midway through this posting (this one here, not the posting I just quoted). I started off describing everyone as ditzy hair-on-fire lunatics, defiantly rejecting truth. Which is true! But then I concluded that those trying to add some truth to the equation are worse; spoiling all the fun. Which is also true!

So what's the sane thing to do? Best is to join the fun and be a ditzy lunatic and enjoy it. You don't enjoy it more by "winning" more on whatever daffy terms your cohorts have arbitrarily defined (one of the rules is that winners don't win, though we pretend not to have observed this 10,000 times). You enjoy it by remembering it's a game. A rave. An acting out. And the really best way - the post-grad Cordon Bleu Unesco World Heritage sine qua non move - is to summon passion while remaining blithely amused. It's not actually hard, but you have so few models that you'll need to "roll-your-own", framing-wise, which is tough because you don't realize it's even possible (note: I've just buried the lede of the grand unifying proposition of my entire Slog).

If you forget yourself, and begin taking it too seriously, and life turns torturous, and you're not the type who derives pleasure from screaming and weeping and gnashing your teeth about the hell you deliberately foisted upon yourself, and you don't sink into an enduring depression, you will likely be drawn to two activities. First, you'll start paying way more clinical attention to what’s actually going on than any of the other participants, eventually recognizing that none of it really stands up to close scrutiny. If you're courageous and clear-headed and can find some spaciousness in which to frame a bit more lithely, you will experience threads unwinding and truth revealing itself (which, along with four dollars, will buy you a cup of coffee, because, per this very posting, the truth is not popular). The second activity is meditation, which clears your head and creates the spaciousness to frame more lithely (I use this very stripped-down system, and strongly suggest skipping the rest of the web site).

But if you conjure a glorious movie about your spiritual quest, you're just ditzing another way. Which is perfectly fine, because - again! - the best activity is to relish the drama (but wear it all lightly). If you really want to know truth - not just as a well-lit theatrical production, but soberly, with glaring house lights turned way up so it's no longer the least bit sexy and captivating, then do what's necessary to achieve spaciousness and clarify view, then go back in and try again. Dip your toe into the drama with clear cognizance that it's only a game. A rave. An acting out. And you can ratchet up the zealousness for more intense gameplay, but do so via passion rather than sweaty clenching. 

And then, eventually, get lost again. Rinse and repeat. This is the tidal cycle of the universe; the inflow/outflow of framing. Spirituality is a pit stop for the slow children.

The Toddler and The Steering Wheel and...
Jnani Train


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Baking Fresh, Japanese Style

I've written several times about the necessity of baking fresh. Sometimes we find exactly the right words for a given situation in a given moment, and the effect is profound. But it can never be reused with the same effect. They're particular to a specific time and place. You need to bake fresh every time. If you don't, you'll lose the power.

By "power", I mean the ability to entice a change of perspective.

Barrack Obama hollered "Yes we can!" and millions of people felt a profound sense of meaning and connection and elected him president. If I stood up on a box in Times Square tomorrow and yelled those words, I wouldn't get a nickel. We saw a dandy example of this right here in the Slog a few years ago. I can't find the link, but I'd written about how an old friend I hadn't seen in years had told me his tale of tragedy and woe. I patiently listened, and, when he concluded, brightly pointed out "and yet, here you are! Still right here!"

It was transformative for him. His eyes bugged out, his demeanor changed. He was unstuck. But, quite sensibly, a Slog reader commented on what horseshit this was, and how such banal words - such a smiley-faced empty-headed bit of conversational fluff - couldn't possibly inspire anything but contemptuous exasperation.

He wasn't wrong! It wasn't for him. It was for the other guy, in that other moment. You have to bake fresh!

Anyway, as the latest evidence that I'm not so original after all, it turns out the Japanese figured this all out eons ago. Check out the phrase Ichi-go ichi-e.


I read a eulogy at my mom's funeral. After the service it felt like a dinner party. Everyone was fine. Back to normal, though no one noticed the shift. It just felt natural. But it won't work for your mom's funeral. You can't reuse it, and I can't either. In fact, it probably wouldn't have much effect on you. It was a custom job. I baked fresh. Ichi-go ichi-e!

A = !B

Just to make a connection...

In Why My Italian Food Sucks, I described the ethnic confusion I experienced in childhood:

Growing up in a 100% Sicilian neighborhood, I didn't realize I wasn't Italian until my friends started going to Catechism. It felt weird that I didn't. Was I not good enough? I asked my parents about it, and they replied (smirking at the absurdity), "We're Jewish!" This response wasn't the least bit helpful. I obviously knew I was Jewish. It didn't explain why I wasn't taking Catechism with my fellow Italians. In fact, to this day, I feel that no one has explained it adequately.

Next door there lived a very old man. Sicilian, naturally. He was dark brown (like my Russian-Jewish grandparents living in Miami Beach), and spoke with an impenetrable accent (again, like my grandparents). My sisters affectionately called him "Grandpa". Both older than me, they'd never bothered to explain that they were simply echoing the girl next door - their friend - who called him that. Me, I thought he was my third grandpa. I bought it. And kind of still do.

Why would "A" mean "Not B"? It still stumps me. It just never computed for me. I don't say this in a cute humble-brag way. It literally confuses me. I don't get it. It's horribly disorienting when people say it. 

And I previously cited this dysfunction to explain my versatility. I've had six or seven different careers, and myriad hobbies. So at least it's led to some beneficial results. Maybe this is a benign cognitive issue! Years ago, my post titled "Promiscuity" surveyed the many styles of music I played, the many cuisines I've learned to eat like a native, and styles of writing I've developed, explaining that despite my extreme polygamy (the sexy word choice is just metaphor; I'm a square in relationships), I'm resolutely dedicated to each of my many true loves:

It had never occurred to me, keeping my head down, that loving, believing in, and identifying with "A" meant not loving, believing in, and identifying with "B". And so I became benignly and unselfconsciously promiscuous. And it wasn't until years later...that I noticed I'd stumbled beyond boundaries.

It's no harder to go broad than to go deep. But it's also possible to go broad and deep. I think it's a matter of sincerity, fervency, and obliviousness.

Agatha Christie on the Grandeur of Misery and Despair

What she's getting at here is a complete mystery to me.


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Why My Italian Food Sucks

There are two cuisines I can cook without a foreign accent:

Punjabi

...and Cantonese.

I have a long affinity for both. I can slip into that skin. I once described how I do this, both as a musician and as a food writer. It's not a pose; I never fake it. I feel it! But I'll concede that I do slip it on and off.

Growing up in a 100% Sicilian neighborhood, I didn't realize I wasn't Italian until my friends started going to Catechism. It felt weird that I didn't. Was I not good enough? I asked my parents about it, and they replied (smirking at the absurdity), "We're Jewish!" This response wasn't the least bit helpful. I obviously knew I was Jewish. It didn't explain why I wasn't taking Catechism with my fellow Italians. In fact, to this day, I feel that no one has explained it adequately.

Next door there lived a very old man. Sicilian, naturally. He was dark brown (like my Russian-Jewish grandparents living in Miami Beach), and spoke with an impenetrable accent (again, like my grandparents). My sisters affectionately called him "Grandpa". Both older than me, they'd never bothered to explain that they were simply echoing the girl next door - their friend - who called him that. Me, I thought he was my third grandpa. I bought it. And kind of still do.

To this day, I feel genuinely Italian, regardless of whatever other things I might be. And yet, my Italian cooking is dismayingly inauthentic. It always tastes Jewish. Hilariously so. Tragically so.

Sole exception: Paul Trapani's Pandemic Sauce, which always hits:

I've never understood this...until now.

I never bother to "slip on" an Italian identity, because it feels like what I am. That's my baseline! But I guess it really isn't. As my parents tried to explain, to my agitated noncomprehension, I'm something different. And if I weren't so unshakable about my Italian heritage, I'd have approached the cuisine more like an outsider. I'd have learned to slip into that skin, and probably cooked it well.

But, as-is, Italian feels like my natural state. So I just go cook, following my instincts, which doesn't work. Because how I label my instincts doesn't matter. Instincts are instincts. And I seem to have the instincts of a melodramatic Eastern-European potato eater with curly sideburns^*.


^* - Don't miss "Jim At Long Last Goes Home", the tale (with photos!) of my first-ever encounter with my actual native cuisine, complete with the indelible image of me snarfing up elemental greasy starch in a disquieting primal frenzy. Not so Italian.

Measurement

Damn it. I never met an inferior. So how do I get measured?

---

The quote has a long history in England, most recently used in a Harry Potter book.

It’s an appalling statement, but as constructed, we don't notice because it carries the potpourri-scented odor of vague humanist positivity, petting the reader like a bunny rabbit (soothing! confirming!) and emanating “niceness” in the most vapid sense of the term. Who could possibly question this?

Me. Singling out a pitied victimhood group is an act of condescension and exclusion - here, that's even made explicit! - be it praiseful or scornful. But this is how it maps in our loony era:

Flamboyantly benign treatment of the pitiable makes you awesome, while any other singling out makes you anathema. Creating a monolithic "THEM" is either super good or super bad, depending on how it's handled. And this quotation is contrived to radiate benevolence, so, yay, rack up a point for Goodness and Light, because we‘re conditioned to ignore the condescension inherent in the cartooning of living, breathing humans into two dimensional dignity-stripped dogma dolls used for flaunting our humanistic super-niceness. 

So, by all means, let's everyone watch me butter noblesse oblige all over the poor squalid “little” people, and I'll be expecting my super-high "measurement" ASAP, thanks in advance! Oh, and, I almost forgot to say, thank you SO much; you're AWESOME for doing this! What's your name? Cliff? Cliff the Measurer? Well, hello, Cliff, I'm Daeni! Please accept my mindful acknowledgement, namaste! Hey, WILLEM? AISHA? Get in the Tesla RIGHT NOW! You hear me? RIGHT NOW!


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Why I Don't Taste While I Cook

I never taste food as I cook. You’re supposed to, as a cardinal rule. But I don't.

Tasting is the way to maintain consistency. Ensure all dials are at calibrated settings. Standardize. Bring this up, and that down. Regress to the mean.

You won't achieve deliciousness by bringing this up and that down. If that were possible, a robot could do it, which means MacDonald's would be scrumptious. A Taco Bell Black Bean Crunchwrap Supreme® would make you ball up your fists and moan with delight. But you can’t calibrate your way to deliciousness.

In a restaurant, dishes need to taste the same night after night. Consistency is king. And many home chefs are foolish enough to try to recreate the restaurant experience. I don't get it. It'll never be as good! You don't have the prep help, the equipment, or the tens of thousands of iterations! Yet they stand there, needlessly calibrating - bringing this up and that down - like a restaurant, or a robot, or a restaurant robot. Oblivious to their freedom to cultivate serendipity.

My home cooking is never the same twice, and thank goodness for that. I won't tire of it. If I've salted a bit less tonight, intentionally or not, fine! Just a different vibe. A little ascetic this time. Because I always cook with care, it will rarely be outside the envelope of deliciousness. Tonight’s a little more buttery; a bit less spicy, that's all. Still good. And randomization sparks ideas for future modification. Wow, I like it with more onions!

Being human, on rare occasions I'll miss the envelope of deliciousness. This happens when I'm not careful. Usually because I feel so careful - hey, I'm Mr. Meticulous! - that I forget to actually be careful. If I egregiously over or under season, to a point beyond tolerable variation and into the realm of ruin, because I'm not careful, that will never be the only problem. The whole dish will be off in myriad aspects from lack of care, and that’s not repairable. You can't reverse entropy. You won’t put Humpty together again.

So that meal, ok, will be a "6" or "7" (consider my surprisingly non-ditzy system for rating foods and other things from one to ten), not my usual "8" or maaaaybe "9". But tasting wouldn't have rescued it, because there's no rescuing sloppy.

Socrates on Discontentment

First, it was way more poetic in the original ancient Greek. The translator deserves hemlock.

Second: I can't help but mutter "baby steps!" This reads like a preliminary light splash of cold water in the face of deep human fallacy, like a politician's puny shovelful of dirt symbolicly launching a big construction project. Yet, 2424 years later, it still reads fresh. I suspect most people would even find it surprising. That's not a good thing. In 2.5 millennia, you really wanna see some progress.

Third: There are two ways to read “what he would like to have.” Socrates meant it directly, but there's also a bankshot - an alternative framing - to consider. It's amply clear that discontent is never extinguished by attainment of the desired thing (another example of jading, a topic I've been dancing around for a couple weeks), but aren't we content, at a higher level, in that pure wanting? In the opportunity to issue a theatrical wail of contrived discontent?

It would appear so, given how notoriously ephemeral contentment is, compared to the endurance of desire amid even ample satiation. If one finds contentment only in a pose of deficiency, it's natural to proactively reject satisfaction, which undermines the wailing that's our highest calling.

This, in fact, is the issue of our age, and it well might prove our undoing as a species (see this and this)


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Cool Sand Painting

The lost art of real-time sand painting. You may want to turn off sound if you find the narration too maudlin. It's a bit much, but the art is amazing, even magical.

Ricky Jay (here) describes sand painting as a lost vaudeville art, and this seems(?) like the only representation on YouTube: