The status of the wholes

Some of you might know that I govern my days using a “scalable loop”. It’s a construct that I developed to bypass the rigidity of rituals and routines—I can twist, bend and shape the loop to fit into whatever gaps and whatever circumstances arise. (Read more about it here.) Currently, the loop has five components: Breathe / Read / Write / Move / Play. And since I’ve been writing but not publishing, and since the first month of the year is drawing to a close, I thought I’d use that five-part structure as a frame for an update. But before I proceed, I want to draw your attention to two things.

First, an essay called Generating Wholes by Joe Norman. My favourite part of the piece is this:

“In living systems the whole generates the parts. The parts do not exist a priori. In each step of this process we can see that both wholes and parts come from existing wholes. They are not constructed in the usual sense—they are not manufactured. They are synthesized via an unbroken chain of wholes, extending back to the beginning.”

Reading that changed me. Immediately. If you’ve ever broken a bone or snapped a ligament, you’ll likely have a visceral recollection of the moment when it broke, that indescribable fragment of time in which the force being applied to your body exceeded its ability to endure it. I had a similar experience. Considering the ideas in that short-but-potent piece shattered the spine of one of my deepest assumptions—that my life is made up of a plethora of different pieces that individually are important, but come together to create something more than the literal sum of their parts. Now, I have begun to see and think of my life as a collection of wholes, instead of as a collection of parts. I haven’t truly unpacked the consequences of this transition—I need more time—but it continues to be something I am unable pull my mind away from.

Second, I learnt about a new concept in Pema Chodron’s When Things Fall Apart: the notion of a samaya bond. The easiest way to think of the samaya bond is as an unbreakable vow, as an irrevocable, unconditional commitment between a teacher and a student. As Chodron says:

“If the student accepts and trusts the teacher completely and the teacher accepts the student, they can enter into the unconditional relationship called samaya. The teacher will never give up on the student no matter how mixed up he or she might be, and the student will also never leave the teacher, no matter what.”

In addition to perceiving the parts of me and the parts of my life as wholes, I’ve also come to see these wholes as teachers. And thus I have been wondering: is it the right time to enter into a samaya bond with the practices of breathing, reading, writing, moving and playing? Am I ready to make an unconditional, irrevocable commitment to them? Perhaps…

Anywho. The meta-commentary is done. Now, we can move on.


The sequence: I wrote about trading oxygen for coffee. Then I wrote about the transition to eyes-open meditation, as opposed to eyes-closed. Next, I read Deconstructing Mindfulness by David Collins. Then, after realising that my meditation practice had completely ignored the foundation of concentration, I decided to focus awhile on attaining the Jhana states. As a result of this, I asked David to for some resources to aid in this particular quest, and he was grateful enough to put me onto the work of Stephen Snyder and Tina Rasmussen, and of Shaila Catherine. The result of all this?

First, I am practicing concentration meditation basically every day. I’m trying to approach the practice with the resolve to Make no plans, to leap over the labels of “succeeding” and “failing”. It’s working, slowly, and that is okay.

Second, I have decided that eyes closed is the best approach for this type of contemplation, but I’ve maintained the eyes open approach for periods of zazen (see here and here), and for any other time when I am just sitting and being a human.

Third, I’ve woven all this together into a framework for attaining a “higher” state of awareness or consciousness. I am unable to enact it now, but I hope to be able to in the coming years. It looks like this:

Step One — Use the Wim Hof Method of breathing (deliberately intense breathing, a prolonged inhalation, and a prolonged exhalation, repeated three or four times) to dispel any psychological or psychological impediments to concentration. This method of breathing compels the sympathetic nervous system to activate with more intensity.
Step Two — Make my way, sequentially, through the Eight Jhana states, and develop a profound one-pointedness of mind.
Step Three – Transition out of the Jhana states and use the momentum previously accumulated to transition from one-pointedness to many-pointedness of mind, from a state of deep concentration into a state of deep awareness.

Right now, I am far from attaining even the first Jhana, so you can see why the above path is a long-term ambition. It’s also worth noting that my understanding of what “deep awareness” is and actually involves is sparser than I thought it was. Luckily, though, I picked up The Manual of Insight by Mahasi Sayadaw on a whim, at the same time as David’s recommendations. I suspect that text holds the keys to several locks.


I’m back into my reading rhythm. Although the articles linked above are the only ones I’ve actually read online with anything more than fragmented attention, I’ve been able to absorb myself in several books over the past few weeks.

After reading multiple second-hand references and interpretations, I decided to read a translation of Mein Kampf. I read the first half and I have many thoughts about it, none which I am willing to share yet. After reading and loving Rene Girard’s Deceit, Desire and the Novel (which traces elements of desire in the works of Flaubert, Cervantes, Proust and Dostoevsky) I was persuaded to continue Proust’s In Search of Lost Time series. I’ve read the first, so I picked up the second, Within a Budding Grove, but despite some truly profound passages I dropped it in order to re-read Eiji Yoshikawa’s Musashi, which was glaring at me from the bookshelf. Dropping Proust in favour of Yoshikawa turned out to be a good decision: the latter resonated with me in a much greater way than when I first read it. I actually tweeted about it here.

A consequence of those tweets was a nod towards the work of James Clavell, specifically his Asian Saga. Like a rapper shutting down Gucci and cleaning out the store with his black card, I brought all six novels in the series (for a total of nearly six thousand pages of fiction) and began the first, Shogun, as soon as it arrived. So far. Can confirm. It’s good.

I also finished Katy Bowman’s essay collection, entitled Movement Matters. It’s just as good, if not better, than another one of her books, Move Your DNA. Off the back of that, I’ve begun Erwan Le Corre’s The Practice of Natural Movement. Also, truly good—but I’ll talk about these books more later. The other book in my hands at the moment is Philosophy in the Flesh by George Lakoff and Mark Johnson. It’s about embodied cognition and it’s changing my mind, connecting so many dots and concepts that have lied dormant waiting for an opportunity to come together. Again, recommended.

Another development on the reading front: I picked up a hand-me-down Kindle. I am, and always will be, a devoted dead-tree book reader, but I’m finding it a bit awkward to lug some of my door-stopper texts to work with me, and while I don’t mind taking six books with me on a week-long holiday, it is a tad inconvenient. Previously, I had been content to live with the inconvenience, but after discovering that my CargoWorks pouch will take a Kindle alongside my phone and notebook, I decided to make a change. In order to travel lighter, I’ll be rocking a Kindle stuffed with the complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (which I can re-read endlessly) and a few other collections—Tiago Forte’s Praxis ebooks, a few Ribbonfarm Roughs, an Eliezer Yudkowsky book or two, and a number of other diverse texts that I have yet to decide upon (recommendations welcome).


As I mentioned in AFK, kinda, I have stopped blogging in order to focus on my novel. I want to publish it by the end of this year, and after creating a set of significant milestones and coupling them with deadlines, I can say that I am on target. For now. It’s not like I’ll be going from conception to completion of a novel within a year, though. I’ve already spent months on character profiles, countless time thinking about worldbuilding and iterating the events, and many hours contemplating the sort of story I want it to be and the manner in which I want to tell it. I’ve had a headstart and it’s going to be interesting to see how long I can maintain it (praying and lobbying to the Gods on my behalf is encouraged). I can be more specific…

Thus far, I’ve come up with a beat-by-beat outline for the story, and I’m using it in the manner suggested by Venkat in response to a toot:

“…as a trellis to guide a growing vine structure. You lay it out to get a vague sense of overall arc and avoiding dead ends, internalize it subconsciously, but then write the story in an improv fashion, simulating the action in your mind. You refer to the outline again only if you run into trouble, and it’s okay to skip or add beats by improv”.

I was lucky enough to receive that advice before I began drafting proper. I was also lucky enough to receive a nudge from M. K. Anderson— she persuaded me to take a proper look at genre, genre conventions, obligatory scenes, sources of conflict, and hook-build-payoff structures at different levels within the story. I did that. I pulled out my copy of Shawn Coyne’s Story Grid, figured out the questions I needed to answer, and went about answering them. Which I am glad I did because I realised, amongst other things, that my novel is a story about courtship. I did not see that coming.

In terms of volume, I’ve been making my way through the novel at essentially the same speed that I used to blog at—roughly three thousand words a week. I expect there to be periods where that increases and patches where it decreases, but either way I want to get to a shitty-first-draft before May begins.

I know I said in AFK, kinda that I’d use the absence of publishing time pressure to be more active on social media and dig deeper into more complex topics and create longer posts. That hasn’t really happened. Similar to how one uses their income to pay the rent and buy food first, and only then goes on holiday and out to dinner, I haven’t felt like I’ve had the disposal income to invest in those activities. If you look at the etymology of the word “priority” it is singular—it is meant to refer to one thing. The novel is the thing right now. Anything after that is a bonus.

There’s been two consequences of this prioritisation. First, I am writing in my notebook more, attempting to record both inner and outer truths. Second—and this is related to the first—there has been no drop in the number of thoughts I have. Instead, there has been a development in my ability to let them alone. Previously, when I had a “good” idea, I’d grasp it and record it in some form for later use. Now, my thought is like a butterfly landing on an extended finger: I see it land, remain still while it takes its rest, and let it flutter off as soon as it feels ready. The previous sentence is probably a third consequence of focusing on my novel—the proliferation of “lofty” metaphors in my prose. Don’t worry, they make me cringe, too. But right now I don’t feel particularly self-conscious, so they’re staying—after all, didn’t Ray Bradbury say something like, “the enemy of all art is self-consciousness”?

Which brings me to the penultimate point of this section: Ray Bradbury also said that, in writing, quantity leads to quality. Venkat mentioned this idea in a recent Breaking Smart Q&A, and after I riffed about it on Twitter, I began to think that it is an idea applicable to more than writing. It’s common knowledge that writing is a proxy for thought, so wouldn’t quantity of thought lead to quality of thought? If you follow the logic and subscribe to it—I do—then the imperative is obvious: we should do everything we can to have as many thoughts as possible. If that means blogging, fine. If that means, making up limericks and poetry, cool. If that means moving to a new place, communing with oak trees in a remote forest, listening to the whispers of a mystical waterfall, living in a van, or filling a house with dogs, cats and llamas, great. Do whatever it takes.

Finally (phew), I suspect it looks like I’m contradicting the quantity leads to quality idea above. After all, I’m not publishing anything, really. Counterpoint: I’m writing just as much as I used to and I feel like I am having more thoughts than ever before.

More importantly, I feel like I have settled on a course for the next few years at least. In roleplaying games, it is possible to play either “pure” or “hybrid” characters. The latter could be, for example, an axe-wielding barbarian who also knows a few spells. The former could be, for example, a thoroughly committed magic user whose only form of attack and defense is the arcane. After a year or two of LARPing a “hybrid” character, trying to get my freelance career off the ground and blog and write a book and do all the other things, I now feel like I’m much better suited to the role of “Pure Writer”. I understand the risks of this approach, but as I write this I have twelve books I know I want to write. Allowing for a fifty percent entropy rate, that’s still six books to get around to. (FYI, I know an idea or insight is book worthy because it plants itself in my brain, begins to grow of its own accord in my sub- and unconscious, and then reappears to my consciousness later, in a vastly more advanced state.)

That sounds crazy, right? Everyone says that writing a book is a slog, a ball-ache, torture. For example, James Clear said recently that:

“In case anyone is wondering:

1. Writing a book is very not fun.

2. Launching a book is very fun.

3. Number 1 is what makes Number 2 possible.

The height of your joy is linked to the depth of your sacrifice.”

That’s not true for me. Writing is the fun part. Having ideas and seeing where they take me is the whole point. If it benefits others? I will be amazed. If it results in unexpected-but-meaningful relationships? I will be grateful. If I can make a living from it? I will be humbled. But none of those possibilities change the fact that, for me, the act is the reward. And I’ve made a conscious choice to orientate my life around that fact.


I have never fallen out of love with reading, nor with writing. I can’t say the same for movement. My youth was heavily composed of different sports, and as I became an adult that process continued. The only difference was that I swapped team sports for Brazilian jiu-jitsu, a sport that depends on others being present but is a decidedly more individual pursuit—the practitioner alone is responsible for the rate and extent of their progress. But over the last year, my momentum in that, and in physical training generally, flagged.

Fortunately, this new period of my life has seen that energy re-captured and exceeded. Although I am only able to train once or twice a week, I am thoroughly enjoying the practice of BJJ. I’ve adopted the same approach with BJJ as I have taken with my meditation practice: show up, be attentive, and let the development take care of itself.

Outside of BJJ my movement practice feels revitalised too. Much has been said about the toxicity of social media, especially channels that overwhelm us with normative models (see The toxic triangle of modernity). However, I’ve cultivated a private Instagram account, made it movement-centric—as opposed to my Twitter feed, which is a river of ideas concerned with a great number of mostly abstract topics—and deliberately resolved to use the people I find there as inspiration instead of models to compare myself with and gauge my ability against. Following the accounts of Ido Portal, Tom Weksler, Rafe Kelley, Roye Gold, Fighting Monkey, Formless Arts, Erwan Le Corre and MovNat, many yogis, multiple BJJ competitors and coaches, and a lot of photographers and filmmakers, has nourished my mind with possibilities and helped me to practice movement more often, for longer, and in many different ways.

As I hinted at in The floor and the canopy, my aim is not just to lift weights, swing a kettlebell or cycle up a particularly challenging hill. Those things are good and useful sure, but my main aim is to be able to walk and run and climb and swim and jump and fall and crawl with ease.

Part of the reason that my capacity for movement was dulled in the first place was that I was struggling to find a way to fit it into my life. I solved that problem: in the back of my notebook, I keep a folded index card. On that card are three stages of a movement practice.

The first stage, which involves a few low-level basic movements that I can do cold—like hanging and rolling—functions as a warm-up. If I have five minutes, I can just do that. And how can I not have five minutes?
The second stage is more expansive. It has two parts. The first is a superset which pairs a pull movement with a Turkish get-up. The second is a single-hand kettlebell complex which involves a swing, a clean, a squat, a press and a carry. If I have only fifteen minutes I can do a warm-up and one of those movements. If I have thirty or forty minutes I can do a warm-up and both the superset and the complex.
The third stage is focused on exploration and has no explicit instructions. Instead it has three columns. The first lists basic human movement instructions: strike, throw, crawl, jump, etc. The second lists modifiers or spectra for those actions: slow-fast, inside-outside, planned-improvised, etc. The third lists implements that can be mixed in: the ground, water, bands, bars, sticks, balls, etc.

This approach has a similar flavour to the scalable loop, and in lieu of working directly with a coach (which I have done previously) it’s the best solution I’ve come across to the problem of programming movement into a life. Here’s the card itself, the backside of which has two ideas that I am trying to keep in mind:

movement card

Of course, those activities only take place during a specific movement session. And as I learnt in Bowman’s Movement Matters and as I’m learning from Le Corre’s The Practice of Natural Movement, there’s more potential for gain—and there’s more cause of harm—in the other twenty-three hours of the day that we’re not explicitly focused on movement and training. The shorthand of “23/1” reminds me of this, and as a consequence I’m trying to be more mindful of movement and health in the rest of my life.

One way in which I’m doing this is sitting on the floor more. Sounds simple, but it’s quite remarkable how effective it is. Try it for yourself. I’m also making a point of moving on the floor and rolling around when playing with our puppy. Again, simple but effective.

The other notable things I’m doing in regard to health are first, taking care of my sleep, and second, taking cold showers. First, because I don’t have the time pressure of publishing daily or twice a week, I’m allowing myself to sleep in a bit later. This is helping me when I go into and come out of night shifts. I no longer feel as tired after a week of shifts, and I feel like the rest of my life has been enhanced because of this significant change in my approach to sleep. Second, I’m finishing every shower with either a couple-minute blast of cold, or a few rounds of hot and cold. The usual stress placed on body because of a moderately physical job, BJJ and my movement practice hasn’t decreased, but my ability to tolerate it and recover from it has seen a marked increase because of this.

I’m sure that, when it comes to movement and health, there are other things I can be doing and should be doing. I’ll get to them, eventually. But, for now, I’m enjoying the path and I’m happy with its trajectory.


My thoughts and developments concerning this “whole” are both deeper and less extensive than the previous four. That’s because the concept of play permeates everything that I do and is thus hard to comment upon. There’s playfulness in my contemplative practice, in my reading, in my writing, in my exploration of movement, and in most other elements of my life. The phrase I’m trying to associate with my writing now is “joyous freewheeling” and that phrase is equally applicable to the other aspects of my existence. It feels like, on some higher level, I’ve stopped giving a fuck about the “shoulds” and began to wonder about the “coulds”. This isn’t for everyone, and it’s probably not the definitive way to approach life, but for me and for now, it’s working, and my intention is for it to remain that way.

I’d like you to know that I hadn’t intended to say this much. I started and the above just kept coming, like I’d nicked the carotid artery of expression. But it has been fruitful for me. It has helped me consolidate a few thoughts, to tie some bows with the differing threads of my thought. So I’ll say no more.

Except this (I can’t help it): yesterday I went out on my bicycle for the first time this year. Nothing exciting—I completed a loop that I’ve done many times before. However, it did generate two insights.

First: there’s this hilltop farm whose gate I always stop at. It offers wide and sweeping view of the countryside, and on most days it’s a tranquil spot. But yesterday, I missed it. I was so absorbed in my own thoughts about I-can’t-even-remember-what-that I had cycled passed it and made it to the bottom of the hill before I noticed my not-noticing it. Infer from that what you will.

Second: right after I realised I’d missed my usual hilltop-stop, I took a left and sought a gap in the hedge. I dismounted and walked myself and my bike through it, into the field, into its five-by-ten-metre rest area. I leaned my bike against the wooden bench waiting there and took off my helmet, hanging it via the strap off my handlebars. I then popped my water bottle out of its cage, took a sip and walked through the gap in the fencing, towards the middle of the field. It was a cold day but a clear day, cloudless. I could see the hills falling away from me and rising up in the distance. Upon reaching the middle of the field I knelt, tucked both feet under me, seiza style, and breathed out.

It’s said in When Things Fall Apart that “The out-breath is a metaphor for opening our whole being.” I felt the truth of those words whilst knelt in that field on that cold clear day—I breathed everything I had into the wind, and the wind bore it away. The wind also bore me away. It flowed over the hillside, and I went with it. It descended into the valley and climbed out of it. As did I. It kept the birds in the air, and there I stayed with them, for a time.

A picture from the ride.

What this experience created in me was not a reverie so much as a sense of reverence. A deep appreciation for where I’ve been and where I’m going, for who I am and who I am not, for who I was and for who I have yet to be, for the people and the things that are and aren’t around me—regardless of whether I am intimate with them or not, regardless of whether I consider them strangers, friends, allies or enemies.

I recently read somewhere that taking a vitamin C supplement is not the same as eating an orange. That seems obvious, right? Deconstructing a wholesome food and taking its components in fragmented form is not the same as eating the damn fruit. Similarly, in times past, we had religion. It provided us with something to believe in and it was a thing which brought people together. Now, it is different. Despite what you’ve heard, God isn’t dead. And there are other ways in which we generate community and social support around our selves. But what religion also gave us, in a neat package alongside belief and community, is a sense of reverence,. Not a blind faith in or a meek submission to something untouchable and unimaginably larger than us. Just a deep appreciation and respect. I can’t speak for others, but I get the sense that we don’t have that anymore. Or if we do, we rarely feel comfortable enough to share and experience it with one another.

As I rose and made my way back to the bike, I thought on this and I concocted a directive for myself, which also serves as an epigram for this little update:

In action, joy and conviction; in reflection, reverence and doubt; in everything, compassion.

AFK, kinda

On the 12th September, 2018, I switched from posting daily to posting every Wednesday and Sunday. The experience has been exquisite so far, but it hasn’t entirely solved my problems.

First, twice-weekly still doesn’t leave me enough time to do deep thinking and research. It seems that, at the moment, one thousand words is the point of diminishing returns for me. Anything beyond that demands an exertion that I can’t make under current constraints. That means that many of the most interesting questions and possibilities that are raised whilst outlining and drafting posts are left unexplored. Sad face.

Second, blogging time still eats away at book-writing time. I’d like my second book to be finished and released this year. After that, I have at least four that I know I want to write—I know because, without any conscious effort on my part, my mind keeps returning to the projects and putting up preparatory scaffolding. But at this rate I’m not going to finish my current book for years. Sad face, again.

So I’m making another change. I’m going AFK, kinda. I’m not going to have a regular posting schedule for the foreseeable future. Instead, I’ll spend more time working on the novel, I’ll put more effort into exploring audacious ideas with greater rigour, and I’ll be more active on Twitter and Mastodon—treating the latter as an informal platform for conversation and abstract adventuring.

(Also of note: subscribers (who, in my unbiased opinion, are the best humans ever) will still get new posts (short or long, posted here or elsewhere) delivered straight to their inbox and will still be privy to infrequent book-project updates.)

This change is also a bet, a risk taken in service of a belief: that my comparative advantage lies in books not blogging. It is time to let that belief run the gauntlet of reality.

Stories, post-abolition

In Solutions to the problem of life, I acknowledged my tendency to get caught up on the first of the Buddha’s Four Nobles Truths—Life is suffering. Realising that that wasn’t exactly useful, I attempted to find a way past it. As a consequence of releasing that piece, Harry Potash was nice enough to point me towards something a suffering-fixated person like me might find interesting…

The Abolition Project is what prominent transhumanist David Pearce calls the attempt to abolish unpleasant experience from the life of humans and non-humans. It is also the title of a talk Pearce gave at Oxford’s Future of Humanity Institute in 2007.

Now, I don’t have much familiarity with transhumanism, or enough grounding in the disciplines it draws on—evolutionary biology, genetic engineering, moral philosophy, etc.—to critique and comment upon what he said. But I can include the extracts from the talk that I found most provocative. (If you wish to skip ahead do. They have no bearing on what is to come.) First:

“Unfortunately, attempts to build an ideal society can’t overcome this biological ceiling, whether utopias of the left or right, free-market or socialist, religious or secular, futuristic high-tech or simply cultivating one’s garden. Even if everything that traditional futurists have asked for is delivered – eternal youth, unlimited material wealth, morphological freedom, superintelligence, immersive VR, molecular nanotechnology, etc – there is no evidence that our subjective quality of life would on average significantly surpass the quality of life of our hunter-gatherer ancestors – or a New Guinea tribesman today – in the absence of reward pathway enrichment. This claim is difficult to prove in the absence of sophisticated neuroscanning; but objective indices of psychological distress e.g. suicide rates, bear it out. Unenhanced humans will still be prey to the spectrum of Darwinian emotions, ranging from terrible suffering to petty disappointments and frustrations – sadness, anxiety, jealousy, existential angst. Their biology is part of “what it means to be human”.”


“If there weren’t something fundamentally wrong – or at least fundamentally inadequate – with our existing natural state of consciousness bequeathed by evolution, then we wouldn’t be so keen to change it. Even when it’s not unpleasant, everyday consciousness is mediocre compared to what we call peak experiences. Ordinary everyday consciousness was presumably adaptive in the sense it helped our genes leave more copies of themselves on the African savannah; but why keep it as our default-state indefinitely? Why not change human nature by literally repairing our genetic code?”

Third (in response to a proposed genetic solution to the problem of suffering):

“First, this genetic recalibration might seem to be endorsing another kind of uniformity; but it’s worth recalling that happier people – and especially hyperdopaminergic people – are typically responsive to a broader range of potentially rewarding stimuli than depressives: they engage in more exploratory behaviour. This makes getting stuck in a sub-optimal rut less likely, both for the enhanced individual and posthuman society as a whole.
Secondly, universal hyperthymia might sound like a gigantic experiment; and in a sense of course it is. But all sexual reproduction is an experiment. We play genetic roulette, shuffling our genes and then throwing the genetic dice. Most of us flinch at the word “eugenics”; but that’s what we’re effectively practising, crudely and incompetently, when we choose our prospective mates. The difference is that within the next few decades, prospective parents will be able to act progressively more rationally and responsibly in their reproductive decisions. Pre-implantation genetic screening is going to become routine; artificial wombs will release us from the constraints of the human birth-canal; and a revolution in reproductive medicine will begin to replace the old Darwinian lottery. The question is not whether a reproductive revolution is coming, but rather what kinds of being – and what kinds of consciousness – do we want to create?
Thirdly, isn’t this reproductive revolution going to be the prerogative of rich elites in the West? Probably not for long. Compare the brief lag between the introduction of, say, mobile phones and their world-wide adoption with the 50 year time-lag between the introduction and world-wide adoption of radio; and the 20 year lag between the introduction and world-wide penetration of television. The time-lag between the initial introduction and global acceptance of new technologies is shrinking rapidly. So of course is the price.”


“From a notional God’s-eye perspective, I’d argue that morally we should care just as much about the abuse of functionally equivalent non-human animals as we do about members of our own species – about the abuse and killing of a pig as we do about the abuse or killing of a human toddler. This violates our human moral intuitions; but our moral intuitions simply can’t be trusted. They reflect our anthropocentric bias – not just a moral limitation but an intellectual and perceptual limitation too. It’s not that there are no differences between human and non-human animals, any more than there are no differences between black people and white people, freeborn citizens and slaves, men and women, Jews and gentiles, gays or heterosexuals. The question is rather: are they morally relevant differences? This matters because morally catastrophic consequences can ensue when we latch on to a real but morally irrelevant difference between sentient beings. [Recall how Aristotle, for instance, defended slavery. How could he be so blind?] Our moral intuitions are poisoned by genetic self-interest – they weren’t designed to take an impartial God’s-eye view. But greater intelligence brings a greater cognitive capacity for empathy – and potentially an extended circle of compassion. Maybe our superintelligent/superempathetic descendants will view non-human animal abuse as no less abhorrent than we view child abuse: a terrible perversion.”


“The last frontier on Planet Earth is the ocean. Intuitively, running compassionate ecosystems might seem too complicated. But the exponential growth of computer power and nanorobotic technologies means that we can in theory comprehensively re-engineer marine ecosystems too. Currently such re-engineering is still impossible; in a few decades, the task will be computationally feasible but challenging; eventually, it will be technically trivial. So the question is: will we actually do it? Should we do it – or alternatively should we conserve the Darwinian status quo? Here we are clearly in the realm of speculation. Yet one may appeal to what might be called The Principle Of Weak Benevolence. Unlike the controversial claim that superintelligence entails superempathy, The Principle Of Weak Benevolence doesn’t assume that our technologically and cognitively advanced descendants will be any more morally advanced than we are now.”

I actually read the talk, in full, a few times. The ideas it contains are new to me and so they raised multiple questions. But the first question they raised was not the one I was expecting: What happens to stories in a suffering-free world?


The simplest model for a story I’ve come across is Kurt Vonnegut’s “story graphs”. They look something like this:

example story graphs

Here, the plus and the minus can be as simple or as complex as you like. They could chart a protagonist’s progress towards his goal. They could be multiplied and comment on multiple character’s journeys. There could be a different one for both the character’s explicit objective and his or her implicit objective and the story could be about the conflict between the two values. They could be used to represent transitions between material wealth and poverty, or between philosophical or psychological abundance and scarcity. However they are used, they can form the foundation for understanding or producing a story in multiple mediums. But the aim of the “abolitionist project” is to abolish suffering and unpleasant experience—so, in essence, we lose the bottom half of the graph. But what happens then?

story graphs lopped

The first answer is obvious: we move the goalposts. Stories will no longer be tales of transitions between good and bad, but recounting of movements between good and better. A villain will no longer be Evil, he’ll just be Less Good than the average hero, for example. Pearce uses the phrase “gradients of bliss”—stories in a suffering-free world will be about the peaks and troughs of those gradients.

original to new story graphs

The second answer is a bit weirder, and the easiest way to understand it is with a reference to technological pastoralists. These are people who think it’d be a good idea to regress to a state where technology is less advanced because humanity was less corrupted back then. Sometimes, though, these people act on that belief and move to a farm to grow their own turnips. Imagine that the transition to a post-abolition society is complete and the generations with concrete experience of pre-abolition society have died. All that will remain of experienced-suffering are the records preserved in various media. And in the same way that people LARP around to find out what a pre-technological existence was like, people will want to LARP around and find out what a pre-abolition existence was like.

Pearce says, in the talk linked above, that “happier people – and especially hyperdopaminergic people – are typically responsive to a broader range of potentially rewarding stimuli than depressives: they engage in more exploratory behaviour.” I don’t think it’s much of a leap to claim that once we’ve abolished suffering and ceased to remember what it feels like, then our new, more-predisposed-to-exploration selves will get curious and engage in small-scale recreation experiments. And of those who are brave enough to engage in the experiments, there are going to be some who come back and decide to record it.

John McPhee, in Writing by Omission, talked of Hemingway and his tendency to leave what he knew out of his work.

“And inevitably we have come to Ernest Hemingway and the tip of the iceberg—or, how to fashion critical theory from one of the world’s most venerable clichés. “If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water.” The two sentences are from “Death in the Afternoon,” a nonfiction book (1932). They apply as readily to fiction. Hemingway sometimes called the concept the Theory of Omission. In 1958, in an “Art of Fiction” interview for The Paris Review, he said to George Plimpton, “Anything you know you can eliminate and it only strengthens your iceberg.” To illustrate, he said, “I’ve seen the marlin mate and know about that. So I leave that out. I’ve seen a school (or pod) of more than fifty sperm whales in that same stretch of water and once harpooned one nearly sixty feet in length and lost him. So I left that out. All the stories I know from the fishing village I leave out. But the knowledge is what makes the underwater part of the iceberg.””

In a post-abolition society there will be a gap in the market—people who have experienced suffering—and it won’t take long for it to be filled. It’ll be like wireheading (“direct stimulation of the pleasure centres of the brain via implanted electrodes”), but for pain instead of pleasure. We’ll go to some nondescript building, sign some forms, get hooked up and be run through the gamut of the original human emotional spectrum for however long we think counts as “authentic”. We’ll then unhook, run off back to our co-working space and get to work on a piece for that New Media outlet.

Stories, post-abolition, will involve a recalibration of traditional axis, but they will also present storytellers with an opportunity to experience an unaltered consciousness.

Eyes open

Much has changed since I began my meditation practice several years ago. I’ve experimented with multiple ways of sitting and found that the Japanese seiza position (legs folded under) and the Burmese position (legs crossed in front) work best for me. I’ve tried different things with my hands, too. Resting them together in a gable grip, resting the back of one in the palm of the other, interlocking the fingers and letting the tips of my thumbs hold each other up, keeping the hands separate and placing each palm-down upon my knee or thigh, keeping the hands separate but palm-up and with the thumbs touching the index fingers ever so lightly.

I’ve tried meditating to music, meditating to silence (via earbuds) and meditating with only the sounds of the space around me. I’ve tried to breathe solely through the nose and solely through the mouth. I’ve tried to practice with a wry grin on my face and with a face devoid of expression. I’ve tried modulating the velocity of my breathing, deliberately slowing it and deliberately speeding it up, and I’ve tried letting it come and go as it pleases.

I’ve tried many approaches with the mind as well. I’ve tried focusing solely on breathing in and breathing out. I’ve tried breathing ladders of varying lengths—inhale for one, exhale for one, inhale for two, exhale for two… I’ve tried repeating phrases and mantras to myself and I’ve done a tiny bit of exploration with ommm-like chants. I’ve utilised body scans and I’ve began sessions with the hunt for and dismissal of muscular tension. I’ve tried to concentrate on loving-kindness and on compassion, for myself and for others. I’ve tried not concentrating or focusing on anything, zazen-style, and just observed the paths that my mind was determined to walk. Most recently, I’ve gone back to noticing only the out-breath and trying my best to remain with it. But throughout all this, one thing has not changed—what I do with my eyes.

I close them.


Eyes shut is what my first contact with meditation texts advised. So I did it. And as I made my way through more texts—books by Jon Kabat-Zinn, Bhante Gunaratana, Pema Chodron, Alan Watts, and several others—this instruction was affirmed. And if it was contradicted I chose not to notice it, or to notice it and disregard it. Why, though?

For most of my meditation journey, I’ve associated the shutting of my eyes with enclosure in a panic room. It is like closing my eyes has been a way to nope out of my current situation and trade it for one in which I can be motionless, light, and composed. With my eyes shut the small details in my immediate environment have more trouble distracting me. With my eyes shut, stress and anxiety can be more easily shed. With my eyes shut, I can fool myself into inhabiting a different time and space from the one I truly occupy. With my eyes shut, it is easier, wherever I am. In a hotel room, at a friend’s house, on holiday, at work—wherever I happen to be, when I shut my eyes I see the same comforting nothingness that is the back of my eyelids.

Until recently, I’ve had no reason to question this component of my meditation practice. But then I started to fall asleep. As part of my oxygen-instead-of-coffee experiment, I’ve found it increasingly hard to remain alert in the mornings. Especially when I rise at my usual pre-dawn time of between 0430 and 0600. Shortly after waking I sit down to meditate. But without caffeine—or, at least, without the promise of consuming it shortly—I find it hard to muster any energy or momentum. Enter Thomas Cleary.


Cleary is a renowned scholar of Eastern thought and a prodigious translator of Buddhist, Taoist, Confucian and Muslim classics. The only one of his works that I possessed was his translation of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War—the same translation of Sun Tzu’s text that military strategist and fighter pilot John Boyd thought best. Recently, I regained my interest in mindfulness and the religions and traditions that underpin it, so I turned to Cleary.

Looking through his works on Amazon, I was excited to find a book called Minding Mind: A Course In Basic Meditation. It is a collection of seven talks and texts, from various ages, about “pure, clear meditation”. I bought it, it arrived, and after I’d cleared my commons-backlog, I began it. The first text is by Chan Master Hongren and it is called the Treatise on the Supreme Vehicle. Amongst other things, it says this:

“If there are beginners learning to sit and meditate, follow the directions in The Scripture on Visualisation of Infinite Life: sit straight, accurately aware, with eyes closed and mouth shut. Mentally gaze evenly before you, as near or as far as you wish: visualise the sun, preserving the true mind, keeping your attention on it uninterruptedly. Then tune your breathing, not letting it fluctuate between coarseness and fineness, for that causes illness and pain.”

Next up is Chan Master Cijiao of Changlu with Models for Sitting Meditation. Amongst other things, he says this:

“The eyes should be slightly open, to avoid bringing on oblivion and drowsiness. If you are going to attain meditation concentration, that power is supreme. In ancient times there were eminent monks specialising in concentration practice who always kept their eyes open when they sat. Chan Master Fayun Yuantong also scolded people for sitting in meditation with their eyes closed, calling it a ghost cave in a mountain of darkness. Evidently there is deep meaning in this, of which adepts are aware.”

Not twenty pages into Minding Mind two of its texts are talking about meditation but advising different things. Eyes shut versus Eyes open. This time, for the first time, I listened. And when I dropped caffeine and experienced problems remaining awake during meditation, I took that message to heart and opened my eyes.


So far, Eyes open has been profoundly better. The internal chatter that I always find so distracting is still there, but it is both less alluring and easier to pull myself out of. I also find it easier to maintain my posture. With my eyes closed, I end up swaying and eventually slouching—that happens less when my eyes are open.

The only issue is that when my eyes are open I don’t see the same thing as everyone else. Or, I do, but in less detail. See, I’m long-sighted. I wear glasses and when I meditate I take them off. Which means what I see is my surroundings, but strongly blurred.

three stages of sight

I’ve always seen my faulty vision as a tiny handicap. But when it comes to meditation I think it is actually a blessing. It permits me a transitional stage between Eyes shut and Eyes open. I can have my eyes wide and still not see with perfect clarity—I get the increased alertness from having my eyes open, but I don’t have to deal with the consequences of sharp and constant visual stimuli.

Speaking more abstractly, this shift to Eyes open seems like a new semantic version of myself. I no longer need to shut my eyes, to closet myself in my attachments and aversions, to seek endless comfort in my hopes and fears. But at the same time, I do not yet see with an unobstructed lens. I am out of the darkness but I still linger in the shade, not yet ready to expose myself fully to the rays of the sun.

Authorial intent

I was lucky enough to see Harry Potter and the Cursed Child last week. I enjoyed it. The music was immersive. The acting, as far as I can tell, was spot on. The use of space and the movement used to transition through it added to the entire production, instead of detracting from it. The effects were not magical, yet they did make me feel as if I was in a different world. But as Livy says, “Men feel the good less intensely than the bad”, so I’d like to share my primary gripe: the story. And to to do that it is necessary to go back in time, to revisit the second volume of Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time.

The following passage is from a part of the book where Proust’s narrator discusses the virtues of Bergotte, a writer he admires.

“These young Bergottes—the future writer and his brothers and sisters—were doubtless in no way superior, far from it, to other young people, more refined, more intellectual than themselves, who found the Bergottes rather noisy, not to say a trifle vulgar, irritating in their witticisms which characterised the tone, at once pretentious and asinine, of the household. But genius, and even great talent, springs less from seeds of intellect and social refinement superior to those of other people than from the faculty of transforming and transposing them. To heat a liquid with an electric lamp requires not the strongest lamp possible, but one of which the current can cease to illuminate, can be diverted so as to give heat instead of light. To mount the skies it is not necessary to have the most powerful of motors, one must have a motor which, instead of continuing to run along the earth’s surface, intersecting with a vertical line the horizontal which it began by following, is capable of converting its speed into lifting power. Similarly, the men who produce works of genius are not those who live in the most delicate atmosphere, whose conversation is the most brilliant or their culture the most extensive, but those who have had the power, ceasing suddenly to live only for themselves, to transform their personality into a sort of mirror, in such a way that their life, however mediocre it may be socially and even, in a sense, intellectually, is reflected by it, genius consisting in reflecting power and not in the intrinsic quality of the scene reflected.”

Proust says that genius consists in “reflecting power and not in the intrinsic quality of the scene reflected.”—this holds the key to my (minor) discontent concerning Harry Potter and the Cursed Child.


J.K. Rowling has said that the story of Harry Potter began on a train, with the image of the Boy Who Lived. From there, she has said, it all began to unfold. She’s also been known as a rather intricate plotter

rowling grid

The above represents just a small slice of The Order of the Phoenix’s plot. Replicate similar structures across seven books, and add to that Rowling’s tendency to flesh out detailed character back-stories, and it becomes clear that Rowling has put a lot of herself into the seven books that make up the Harry Potter series.

Contrast this vast but mostly individual effort with the words from the beginning of the Cursed Child’s program. It begins with “A welcome message from J.K. Rowling, Jack Thorne and John Tiffany” which says:

“The three of us had our first momentous meeting about five years ago, just after Sonia Friedman and Colin Callender had proposed the idea of bringing Harry Potter to the stage. Acclaimed producers on both sides of the Atlantic, they didn’t want to produce a musical or an adaptation of the films or books; rather they suggested that a play would be a wonderful way to explore what had become of the ‘boy who lived under the stairs’.

Jo already had ideas about Harry and his world after leaving Hogwarts, as an adult and a father, and she became intrigued by how theatre could bring his story to life in a different way.”

Rowling had, naturally, shown interest in what came after the end of The Deathly Hallows, but that interest had never been enough to inspire her to put pen to paper and take up the story once again. And I think that shows in the Cursed Child.


It’s possible to split a story into four elements: characters, world, events and narration. “Characters” is the cast of beings that feature in the story. “World” is the time, space and culture that the characters exist in. “Events” are what happens to the characters and their world. “Narration” is how these three things are portrayed to the audience. Until now, I’ve considered this a relatively inclusive framework—every possible thing about a story fits under one of those headings. Except authorial intent.

In my mind, authorial intent is something akin to Proust’s “reflecting power”, but it includes something different, too. Authorial intent is a quality whose potency is felt on some non-conscious level by an audience member. It has to do with the purity of an executed vision. It is what makes a seemingly mediocre story—in terms of it characters, world, events and narration—strike right through to the soul. Its absence is what makes a story with incredible characters, an immersive world, an ingenious plot and deft narration feel limp and lifeless on a deep level. And it is, for me, the difference between The Cursed Child and the seven-part Harry Potter series.

The reclamation project

Hidden in the overwhelmingly cluttered aspect of London are infrequent slices of negative space. Places which have emptiness as one of their primary features. There are tiny gardens, parks, terraces and balconies—these are mostly for the use of residents. There are also “official” negative spaces. Places like Horse Guards Parade, St James’ Park and Trafalgar Square. Places that are considered to be historically and/or culturally significant and so are classed as inviolable. They are used to full capacity only infrequently (usually for national or international events) and cannot be built upon or fundamentally altered. In between these two, between the residential and the sacred negative spaces, there is another category: negative spaces for the high-status individual.

When walking down Oxford Street and Regent Street one sees the typical international luxury brands that make a point of having a storefront on the world’s premium real estate. But down the adjoining side-streets there are also marbled hotel lobbies and commercial buildings accessible only by those with the right pass, an appointment, or a lot of money. I was in London before Christmas and I walked down these streets, past glass-fronted atrium after glass-fronted atrium. I looked into them and saw nothing. That is, they were deliberately bare.

I assumed that the space these companies were preserving was meant to act as a reprieve, an antidote to the masses scuttling outside the confines of the building. A soothing ointment for a client’s ordeal-ridden interaction with everyday busyness. I stand by that assumption. But these spaces, taken alongside residential and sacred negative spaces, also provoked a question: if negative space is recognised as so important by so many different parts of society and culture, why do we continue to let it slip away from us?


I have a pet hypothesis and it goes something like this: Great Thoughts require Great Space. The best way to understand why this is (or could be) is to bring in another ‘s’—“status”. Consider:

the great thought barrier

Low-status people—here labelled “have-nots”—have an abundance of negative space. The unemployed and the retired, especially so, but the working class also. Sure, they are subject to regular demands on space and time, like jobs, families, friends, etc., but that is mostly self-generated and self-sustained. An imagined community, like a country, a subculture, or an academic discipline, is not demanding everything from them. That changes when they graduate from being a have-not to being a have-a-little.

The “have-a-littles” are in no-man’s-land. They are subject to the same regular demands as the have-nots, but they also start to feel the demands of imagined communities. They have accumulated agency, but not enough to buy complete autonomy, and so they are the busiest of the lot. They have more status than the powerless but they are still at the beck-and-call of the powerful. This is where the path ends for most. Only a few make it out of have-a-little-land into the ranks of the “haves”.

The “haves” have an unusual amount of agency, and so purchase autonomy. They outsource both the regular demands of existence like cooking and child-rearing, but also institute hard-limits on the proportion of their life they devote to their imagined communities.

Now, the have-nots and the haves have the most negative space in their lives, albeit for different reasons. And, historically, it is from this dual-pool that many Great Thoughts have arisen. If we go back to antiquity it’s notable that many of the greatest thinkers were numbered among the nobility and leisured classes. Or, alternatively, they were slaves, former slaves, or people of otherwise menial status.


The previous hypothesis is speculative and based on anecdotal data—the impressions I’ve formed from reading a bit of this and that. But what I think is less speculative than “Great Thoughts requires Great Space” is that there is a shift in the curve. It’s moving upwards. Consider a revised version of the above graph.

the great thought barrier 2

Negative space is being corroded across every aspect of western society. The have-a-littles never had much in the first place, but the haves and the have-nots? The haves are, more than ever, being consumed by a global consciousness. Someone who starts a company and sells it no longer retires—not indefinitely anyway. They just choose another type of busyness, usually one with the potential to have either a more global impact (investing in biotech or energy research, for example) or a more focused local impact (funding education for specific towns or cities, for example). No matter how they accomplished it, “making it” is quickly followed by social pressure to contribute to the effort to make it better for everyone else.

The have-nots are seeing their negative space diminished in another way. First, via advertising. Banksy/Sean Tejaratchi wrote:

“People are taking the piss out of you everyday. They butt into your life, take a cheap shot at you and then disappear. They leer at you from tall buildings and make you feel small. They make flippant comments from buses that imply you’re not sexy enough and that all the fun is happening somewhere else. They are on TV making your girlfriend feel inadequate. They have access to the most sophisticated technology the world has ever seen and they bully you with it. They are The Advertisers and they are laughing at you. You, however, are forbidden to touch them. Trademarks, intellectual property rights and copyright law mean advertisers can say what they like wherever they like with total impunity. Fuck that. Any advert in a public space that gives you no choice whether you see it or not is yours. It’s yours to take, re-arrange and re-use. You can do whatever you like with it. Asking for permission is like asking to keep a rock someone just threw at your head. You owe the companies nothing. Less than nothing, you especially don’t owe them any courtesy. They owe you. They have re-arranged the world to put themselves in front of you. They never asked for your permission, don’t even start asking for theirs.”

On a similar note, Scott Galloway has said that “advertising is a tax on the poor”. Hop on a tube-train or a bus. What is plastered on the interior. Ads. Watch regular TV or read a newspaper. Ads. Of course, a person can go ad-free, but it’s gonna cost ‘em.

Add to the omnipresence of advertising in the lives of the have-nots the obliteration of the friction required to access and consume media. Podcasts, audiobooks, radio, streaming services—these are the never-ending accompaniments to people’s lives. What is the result? An existence characterised by the absence of negative space.


In The Architecture of Community Leon Krier talks about city growth and planning. One of the key ideas in the book is this: a city should have a certain fractality to it. Instead of explicit zoning a city should contain quarters, each of which houses residential, commercial, governmental and industrial elements. A city shouldn’t be a great landmass split into pieces and assigned a function, he argues.

Krier is a proponent of human-scale urbanism, which is perhaps best understood by a reference to a classic Christmas movie. As Peter Bajurny says:

“The real hero of Home Alone is the commuter railroad era urbanism that allows Kevin to meet his needs (grocery store, pharmacy, park, church) within walking distance”.

The Architecture of Community contains many intriguing and important ideas, especially as we make the move into an age where the structure of our online communities is becoming an increasingly societal concern. The book also contains some elegant and simple sketches that accentuate Krier’s thinking. One of which is this:

city expansion

It’s used to highlight the difference in different urban growth strategies. Look at the skylines in the diagram above, though. There are essentially three: full, empty, and varied.

skyline 1

Now combine that with a person’s day-to-day activities.

skylines 2

A life completely devoid of activity is, for most, not a life. But a life made up only of activity isn’t a life either. We need the variation. We need action alongside reflection, motion with stillness, to do and to be. But modernity is pushing us towards a life cluttered with doings, with busyness, no matter what part of the socioeconomic scale we occupy.


Governments recognise that negative space is associated with sacredness and significance. Corporations understand that space without explicit purpose is a signal to high status consumer groups. Shouldn’t we, as individuals, recognise the importance of negative space and act to reclaim it?

If you agree that we need to take back some negative space, then the next question on your lips might be, “How?” The answer is tied to the concept of time.

I’ve said that the varied approach is best, that what we need is a mixture of negative and positive space, a blend of action and reflection. But over what timescale?

skyline 3

Do we spent decades doing and then retire to a life of being? Do we allocate negative and positive space the same way we allocate holiday during a working year, giving ourselves an arbitrary number of weeks per annum as negative space? Do we go smaller and say that two weekends every month are devoted to negative space? Perhaps every Sunday is now sacred, a day devoted to nothing but itself? Or do we modulate the negative-positive space ratio over twenty-four hours? There are advocates and arguments for each of the above. My personal favourite is the last: daily.

Our bodies, for the most part, synchronise on a twenty-four hour clock. I believe our behaviour should do the same. There’s a reason why it’s easier to do something every day than it is to do it three times a week. We’re daily creatures. The same is likely to apply for the reclamation of negative space.


I have a rather funny relationship with meditation and mindfulness. It’s been a bigger or smaller part of my life for several years. But one thing that got me interested in it was reading all the testimonials about the transformative effects of a daily meditation practice. I’ve experienced similar effects, if not to the same profound degree. So I would argue that taking up meditation, AM and PM, is the simplest way to reclaim some negative space in a life.

There are others though, and they don’t have to involve folding a foot atop the opposite thigh and chanting mantras that re-align the universe. When I think through the things that I do regularly and ask myself, “How often do I do only one thing?”, the answer is, “Not often.” When I do the washing up, I’ll have some music on. When I eat breakfast or lunch alone, I’ll watch some TV or read a blog. When I do a movement session I’ll chuck on a special playlist.

What if I didn’t do that? What if I made an effort to do one thing? To wash up with no distractions. To eat food with no audiovisual stimulation. To not turn on the TV when I get home. To leave the radio turned off when I drive. To not disconnect from the world while on the train or bus. To leave the headphones out and listen to real life going on around me. What I’ve found, and what you too might find, is that whilst doing the above I start to think.

If you reduce the mind’s operation and model it as input-process-output, it’s possible to say that modernity is emphasising input and output at the expense of processing.

input processing output

I want to do the opposite. I want to dial back input, take more care with output, and give myself more time and space to process. Would you like to do the same?

Getting to intimate

There were a few, but the most powerful moment in Derren Brown’s Sacrifice was this one. Synopsis: Phil, the Average Joe construction worker with a prejudice against immigrants, is being persuaded by Derren Brown to make a sacrifice for the sake of a stranger. After Derren Brown reveals Phil’s genetic heritage—itself a mish-mash from around the world—Phil is put face to face with a stranger and told to hold eye contact with him for four minutes. Phil attempts it, and watching him fall apart during the effort is heart-wrenching. It is almost as if you can see his assumptions and his beliefs, things which he has used to bear so much weight for so long, crumple.

The ability of intense and sustained eye contact to generate empathy is, as Derren Brown says in the prelude to the above moment, based on psychological research. That of Arthur Aron. Specifically, The Experimental Generation of Interpersonal Closeness. But why is it so powerful?

In Impro, Keith Johnstone says that:

“People will travel a long way to visit a ‘view’. The essential element of a good view is distance, and preferably with nothing human in the immediate foreground. When we stand on a hill and look across miles of emptiness at the mountains, we are experiencing the pleasure of having our space flow out unhindered. As people come in sight of a view, it’s normal for their posture to improve and for them to breathe better. You can see people remarking on the freshness of the air, and taking deep breaths, although it’s the same air as it was just below the brow of the hill.”

Intense and sustained eye contact is the opposite of standing upon a hill and gazing out over a magnificent vista. When someone is sat a foot away from us our “space” is most definitely hindered, and not in the same way as it is when we take a busy train or navigate down a crowded street. Johnstone continues:

“Approach distances are related to space. If I approach someone on open moorland I have to raise an arm and shout ‘excuse me’ as soon as I’m within shouting distance. In a crowded street I can actually brush against people without having to interact.”

The difference is related to motion—or its absence—and to the dissipation of focus. In a crowded street, our “space” is impeded, but there are brief intermissions that make up its continual opening and closing. When we sit down opposite another person and hold eye contact, with no table to separate us, with no coffee cup or dinner plate or activity to act as a barrier to connection, and no reason to turn aside and orient ourselves in a different direction, our “space” has no option but to be utterly absorbed by the person opposite. To flow into them.

three spaces 2

This leaves me with another question, though. Unhindered, intense, sustained eye contact generates empathy for a stranger. But I suspect it also generates greater intimacy when undertaken with someone we already know well. And it is this last I want to focus on. I want to know: are there any other shortcuts to intimacy?


Perhaps, but a few things must be handled first.

For true empathy and intimacy to come about there must be a flattening. A transition to a non-hierarchical relationship. This means that each person is appreciated on the level of being not on the level of acts (read more about this in The Courage to Be Disliked). The continuation of a hierarchical relationship negates the possibility of empathy and intimacy. Consider that in such a situation one person has to be higher and one person has to be lower. The person looking down considers themselves superior to the person looking up, and vice versa. In such a scenario, differences, fear and desire are what dominate. And that’s not exactly conducive to intimacy.

Next, there must be a devaluation of words. Traditional relationships—ones that occur in meatspace, not cyberspace—are mostly non-verbal, and the currency they accumulate and reckon their worth in is non-verbal, too. Think of the person who is closest to you. Now think of a stressful or traumatic time which that person helped you endure. When you picture it, do you recall what that person said to you? The exact words they used to coax you around or through the episode? I suspect you don’t, and I certainly don’t when I undertake the same exercise. But I do recall the fact that they were there for me—their presence is the thing that mattered then and matters now.

Now, with a flattened relationship and an understanding of the value of non-words, we can begin to accumulate intimacy. And the way that is done is via the tails of existence, via the good, the bad, and the weird.

With the passage of time comes good, bad and weird experiences. Typically, these experiences are spread out so that they are intermittent. But if we are seeking greater intimacy then they must be clustered closer together. Only a psychopath would willingly create bad experiences in order to gain more intimacy, so that’s off the table as a shortcut. Which leaves the good and the weird. But keep in mind that good and weird experiences can be absolute or relative.

An absolute good experience is defined by its scarcity—winning a world championship is an absolute good because so few people can ever experience it. Similarly, an absolute weird experience is so because of its novelty. The first person to successfully fly over the Atlantic got a taste of the absolute weird. So, sure, strive for absolute goodness and weirdness that is experienced with another, but know that they are not a safe bet and take a lot of time, effort, preparation and luck.

A surer bet is the pursuit of relative good and weird. Relative good and weird revolve around personal reference points and, ultimately, perception. For example, many people have been skydiving. I haven’t. But if I was to go with the woman I love, one, it would shift the benchmarks on my future “good” and “weird” experiences, second, it would shift the benchmarks on her future “good” and “weird” experiences, and third, the shift would be experienced together and so result in a greater intimacy between us.


The above is mostly academic. There are not many people who go out of their way to promote the growth of intimacy in their relationship and attempt to find shortcuts to reach it—although they do exist. So here’s another way to look at the accumulation of intimacy in a relationship.

A couple of years ago, after reading a lot of self-improvement books and blogs, I performed a distillation. I’d been reading about learning and mastery and competence and I had ended up with a tangled mess of models, theories and frameworks. I wanted something simpler. I came up with this:

Mastery = Time x Attention x Love / Ego

“Time” is self-explanatory; “attention” represents the quality of perception and analysis hefted upon a skill or ability; “love” is harder to define—ask every poet, ever—so I’ll leave it to your imagination; “ego” is equivalent to self-importance, or the degree of priority given to the preservation of a favourable self-image.

What I liked—and still like—about this formulation is its fluidity. For example, mastery is attainable in a short amount of time providing the quality of attention and love is maximised and ego is minimised. Conversely, mastery will take a long time to achieve if ego is of titanic proportions—no matter the time, attention and love lavished upon a skill or discipline, ego will negate it.

The same can be said for intimacy. Achieving it takes time, achieving it takes attention, achieving it takes love, and its achievement is hindered by ego.