Message to My Reader
Let's workshop this note that aims to encourage my reader to keep her head up: she can likely survive the crises, the panics, the loss of dear beliefs provoked by my writings--and come out stronger!
Message to My Reader
I am there for you. I want you to know that.
My insights can stir crises of heart and mind, identity and belonging. I know very well that the pictures I paint, the territories I explore, are not for the faint of heart. I am like a university in that way—well, a healthy university: one that, unlike what we so often have seen over the last ten years, welcomes viewpoint diversity rather than banning unsettling ideas, and the people who voice them. My angles so often cut right into the void, dangerous for most people to behold (let alone plunge into). I am an artist. I am a thinker. Artists really do pose a threat when they hold up a mirror to who we are (as artists do). Thinkers really do pose a threat when they machete through the jungles of the unknown in search of truth (as thinkers do). I am not one to downplay the threat. How could artists and thinkers—these weirdo explorers, these illusion divestors, these taboo challengers—not pose a threat to us, our DNA almost ninety-nine percent identical to our tree siblings? How could there not be dangers especially for the western youth, coddled in inbred cyber bubbles of likeminded people where the algorithm feeds them only what it knows they like? So yes, I do understand if my writings wound your psyche. My empathy runs deep. I am not one to write off your pain with the phrase “Get a helmet”—well, at least not with that phrase delivered in a belittling tone. If you are feeling disoriented and wrecked by reading me, I want to give you some hope.
It is perfectly normal if you find yourself reeling from my words. It does not make you fragile or overly sensitive Most of us would double over if they really tried to digest so much of what I discuss. Most of us are understandably desperate to keep out of mind how much ammonia-scented suffering—intense, grotesque, drawn out—plumes from the factory farms on which we suckle; or how vast the universe extends into the micro and out to the macro; or how much our happiness (as beings with nice shoes and toilet paper and fast food) relies on death and slave labor and other forms of exploitation; or how many of our most cherished taboos—say, sex between man and okay-to-proceed-signaling horse or between woman and the erect-and-pursuing dolphin—are as unfounded as yesterday’s taboos against homosexuality and interracial marriage; or how the microbes in our bodies, which outnumber our own cells by far, shape our cravings and our moods; or how we will be forgotten just as thoroughly as our ancestors ten generations back, just as thoroughly as one day the entire human species; or how there is a continuum between molecules and humans (such that we are not different in kind from the rest of the beings in the universe); or how there are thousands of deaths a year merely due to medical error; or how there are black holes ripping apart entire galaxies right now (just as there are thousands dying in agony over the course of one day here on Earth); or how we breathe in pounds of dead skin from others over our lifetimes; or how a clot can kick free at any moment and end all our plans (the showerhead flow breaking into discrete drops the last thing we ever see); or how a blow to the right hemisphere can make us think we are dead, or that our left side is made of wood, to such an extent that we slit our own wrist for nonbelievers to witness the lack of blood; or how many infants have been gangbanged to death; or how all our behaviors and thoughts and feelings are no more ultimately up to any of us than the rolling of a rock is ultimately up to that rock; or how there are brain eating amoebas in popular swim holes; or how the sky-father God is just another Santa-Zeus; or how we might be nothing but, or at least largely, chemical bags—or, better, chemical flows, processes, that our left hemispheres have us congeal under the stability-suggesting term “bags”—of senseless and stasisless particles interacting according to cold laws of physics; or how we are born alone astride the grave, those who are merely twenty merely having weekends left numbering merely in the two thousands; or so on. My writings reside in these areas. So trust me, I get it.
Permit me to dwell on the point. My writings force a confrontation with a polished mirror. But most of us shudder to behold what we see within. The reflections staring back are often base-goaled (if goaled at all), inconsistent, power-hungry liars and cheaters who have done so many ugly things: bullying the classmate with Down syndrome; or punching the baby (“That little nigga ain’t my kid!”); or breaking the dog’s ribs with a steel-toe kick; or jerking off into the panties of our own mothers and sisters; or dumping the body even of Leibniz in an unmarked grave as if he were not one of the greatest pinnacles of our kind; or devouring plants (plants that, unable to flee, guard their lives with thorns, bark, caffeine; plants that even scream when cut), devouring even their sexual parts and yet while we find it unethical to rob bees and cows of honey and milk, the only two murder-free foods; or gas-chambering whole ethnicities after starving and raping them, after running experiments on them, after forcing them to pick which of their children will get its head knifed off (yes, by the chooser himself); or fantasizing about suicide as a last-ditch effort to harm our loved ones; or hurting (banishing, silencing, shaming, mauling) the weird (as we especially like to do in mobs) ultimately because we have been forced to suffer and then die in a microplastic-schizophrenia-tornado-flood-Ebola-retardation-supernova reality we did not ask to join.
So I understand the aversion to my poetry and prose. And I will extend even more empathy when it comes to those who would go so far as to shatter the mirrors—the so-called “cancelers.” We all know, to speak by analogy, the trope, after all: the most vociferous ragers against homosexuality—especially those willing to protest homosexual depictions in art and even to kill homosexuals—have some meth-fueled experiences in their own closets! My writing will prove damn terrifying to those desperate to hid from themselves.
Especially for people swathed by thicker-than-usual atmospheres of ignorance and wishful thinking, especially for people who need to huddle away from the truth just as much as they need to huddle into the infantile rhythms and all-too-chimp content of pop music, especially for people who lack the root depth and strength to stand even mild winds blowing against their favorite notions, artists and thinkers really are live grenades. Artists and thinkers so often shine a merciless light on what “nature has seen fit” to hide from us (the blood pounding, for example, relentlessly through our vulnerable bodies), on what might not be in the interests of many of us to see (the microscopic mites, for example, in fervent mating dances all over your face), on what might not be hygienic for being our best selves to know (that your thoughts and counter-thoughts and intentions and counter-intentions, for example, simply just appear in a steady flow rather than as a result of your choosing that they appear). They so often shake capsize our cherished beliefs and quake our identities (giving us reasons for thinking, for example, that Jesus is not Lord of the reality where ninety-nine point nine percent of all species that have lived on Earth are now extinct). They so often make society hesitate (giving us reasons for thinking, for example, that those we are at war with are humans with dreams and families just like us). They so often endanger what we value (giving us reasons for thinking, for example, that no one is morally responsible and, thereby, that retributive rewards and punishments are uncalled for). They can make us second guess ourselves, even in situations calling for decisive action. They can undercut our feelings of security. They can inspire us to indulge, through empathizing with certain characters, in unhealthy feelings like rage and jealousy. They can challenge our feelings of specialness, our feelings of having more than mere instrumental value. They can legitimize or even glamorize base lifestyles of murder and rape and drug use (rather than of philosophical contemplation and temperance and good deeds). They can make us wonder—in the face, say, of the seemingly looming heat death of a universe—“Why bother?” They can demoralize us, even when they speak on the redeeming aspects of life, merely because their abilities seem so out of reach—as in when Diderot said “When one compares the talents one has with those of a Leibniz, one is tempted to throw away one's books and go die quietly in the dark of some forgotten corner.”
It is important to understand, especially if you are feeling hurt or demoralized or confused or anxious or depressed, that you read me each day. You could always stop if that is what is best for you. I do not pursue you. I do not come after you with my literary hose to siphon away your atmosphere of delusion, your healthy buffer between you and the void. That would be irresponsible. That would be cruel. That would not be the most pragmatic for society or for me, a person who depends on the worker ants who themselves require a thick atmosphere of delusion in order to navigate life each day. Since you are choosing to read me, any pain is on you so to say. If you opt to read my writings and find distress in them, the responsibility for that emotion lies with you.
I share this not to belittle you, but to underscore your autonomy. At its core, my message is one of empowerment: to remind you of your innate ability to choose your path. However, I also want to emphasize an even more hopeful point. If my words evoke strong emotions in you (identity crisis, existential angst, depletion in hope), that is an indication that you possess the resilience to grapple with their depth. And so even though I am reminding you that it is in your power to walk away, I want to encourage you to remain and engage.
Look at it this way. Even if it were the case that I was chasing you, any impact that my words had would be for the good anyway. For if you are among those with the stomach to digest what I have to say, the process will reliably make you stronger, tougher, more in touch with reality—yes, even if it comes with a good deal of stomach pains. If, on the other hand, you are one of the worker ants for whom it would be unhygienic to surround yourself with the brutal realities, the harsh truths, so often shining like absolute black in my work, you can have faith in the innate power of your immune system to protect you from me. Your inherent resilience, eons old, will act as a protective mechanism against anything that might be too harsh for your psyche. Just as your body can get you through childbirth unmedicated, just as your body shelters you from extreme pain, it has its ways to keep delusions in tact against some of the most powerful arguments and revelations.
I want to devote some time to showing this resilience in action. Worker ants have robust immune systems, perhaps too robust for their own good (but definitely effective at keeping out contagion). Worker ants ignore art. While they might hang it up in their homes, they do not tarry before it. It does not bring them to tears. Hit with a proof that would undermine their hope and purpose, their defense mechanism kicks in: “That’s just your opinion!” They deflect. They cancel people for heterodoxy. They mock people for being different—unless, of course, that difference is within their sanctioned norms. Their circular reasoning often lacks critical introspection: “Of course the bible is the literal word of God: the bible says just that!” They are slippery. They use all sorts of cheap tricks, however irrelevant, to avoid letting in anything unsettling. Any irrelevant reason will do: “Why would I trust him? He was canceled”—yes, canceled for something totally unrelated to the issue at hand. “Why would I listen to her? She’s on the other side.” They often weaponize identity: “You don’t get to say anything to me since you are x,” where x is so often an identity group outside the identity group they have convinced themselves with full righteousness has a monopoly on speaking the truth. Whataboutism is one of their cardinal maneuvers: “You make the racist claim that there is a problem with violence in urban black communities? Huh? What about all the white school shooters?” They cloak themselves in selective skepticism, conveniently disregarding when it contradicts their cherished beliefs. “How do I know these statistics aren’t made up? Oh, and look, this one is funded by a religious think tank!” They throw challenges they know can't be definitively met: “Okay Dr. Scientist. Prove to me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this supernatural phenomenon isn't real. Until then, my belief stands!" Trick upon cheap trick—that is their game. They say “No black person will deny that white supremacy is baked into the institutions of this country. Driving down the highway, walking into stores, they move in constant fear.” And when you say “I’m black and yet I do deny that!” they double-down with the No-True-Scotsman maneuver: “No true black person, a black person that lives an authentic black experience, will deny that, though.” The are evading little cretins: “You go on and on about how I shouldn’t smoke, but you used to smoke." They will wear you down with obstinacy, especially if you do not suffer fools wisely: “Bestiality has always been forbidden—that is why it should stay that way." They are evasive little eels. They run out the clock with wave upon wave of immune cells prepared to do any maneuver (rhetorical or physical) to block out all contagion.
We observe this pattern vividly in the following conversation, where Person B repeatedly employs rhetorical strategies of evasion that prevents Person A from gaining much of any traction.
A: “So yeah, that’s why I think we should provide healthcare for all citizens."
B: “But universal healthcare wouldn't work here: our country isn't suited for it [(Circular Reasoning)]. Besides, I think it’s disgusting for doctors to work basically for free [(Strawman Fallacy)]. The quality of care would suffer. Think of the children [(Appeal to Emotion)]!"
A: “No, the government would pay the doctors in accordance with their value to the society.”
B: “You want to hike up my taxes to pay for everyone else's healthcare [(Strawman Fallacy)]. I heard it all before [(Dismissal by Familiarity)]. It is too much of a burden as it is. You yourself were, ten minutes ago, were grumbling about taxes [(Tu Quoque)]!"
A: “Many countries provide universal healthcare without overburdening their citizens with taxes. Perhaps it would be a matter of lowering taxes in other areas."
B: “So you think we should be like other countries [(Strawman Fallacy)]? Trying to turn us communist. I figured that. You keep spouting that nonsense around here and get your ass beat [(Appeal to Force)]. Do you know all the bloodshed that came from communism [(Appeal to Emotion)]? Do you know all the bloodshed, in my own family, that came from fighting that disgusting system [(Appeal to Emotion)]?"
A: “Many capitalist nations successfully implement universal healthcare."
B: “But do they have the same quality of healthcare as we do? I think not. Show me the evidence."
A: “Well, I obviously can’t present all the evidence here. I don’t have the WHO statistics in my damn head.”
B: “See, I didn’t think you could! Name one damn country.”
A: Well, Germany. Germany has one of the oldest universal healthcare systems. The quality of healthcare there is superior according to the WHO.”
B: “Germany!? The birthplace of Nazi Party [(Red Herring)]. Of course, you would go there [(Personal Attack)]. Why would we trust anything they do [(Genetic Fallacy)]? Why would we trust anything the WHO says for that matter [(Genetic Fallacy)]? Do you remember how they handled the COVID pandemic [(Red Herring)]? Besides, most of those countries aren't as diverse and as large as ours. It wouldn't work here [(Special Pleading)]. So you’re gonna need to name a lot more countries than just one [(Moving the Goalpost)]."
A: “It works pretty well in Canada.”
B: “Canada is right on the verge of going socialist. Everyone has to wait months before a checkup while the cancer spreads [(Exaggeration)]”
A: “That does not seem to be very accurate. No system is without its challenges. But these seem overblown. You don’t literally mean what you said, right?”
B: Actually, I do. I know people in Canada [(Anecdotal Evidence)]. But let’s not get sidetracked from the bigger issues. Say we implement universal healthcare here. Not only would that go against our traditional values [(Appeal to Tradition)], but what next? Free houses and cars for everyone? Where does it stop [(Slippery Slope Fallacy)]? Besides, most people I know think universal healthcare is a bad idea [(Appeal to Popularity)]. You are that full of yourself that you are really going to suggest to me that they all wrong [(Personal Attack)]?”
A: “Providing free healthcare has no link to providing free cars. And just because many people believe something doesn’t mean it is true.”
B: “But these are Americans who believe it [(Appeal to Popularity, Patriotic Angle)].”
A: “I’m American.”
B: “I’m talking true Americans [(No True Scotsman Fallacy)]. And let’s not get into that. Really, universal healthcare can mean a lot of things to different people [(Appeal to Ambiguity)].”
A: “It can differ in the details (particularly the details of implementation). But the general idea is pretty uncontroversial.
B: “You say that, yeah. But how can I trust you? You are on the other side [(Circumstantial Personal Attack)]. I have better things to do than to engage in these abstract discussions about what is the correct definition of universal healthcare and all that [(Dismissal by Unworthiness)]. These conversations don’t do anything anyway [(Dismissal by Pointlessness)]. I have to pick up my kids [(Exist Strategy)].”
A: “I will say though that it is kind of ridiculous to say that you can’t trust me because I’m on the other side.”
B: “You calling me ridiculous [(Strawman Fallacy)]? And didn’t I just fucking say I have to go!? You trying to stop me from picking up me kid? I will fuck anyone up who does anything to put my kid in danger [(Appeal to Force)].
What I am trying to say, in all this, is that you should trust in the power of your immune system. Even if it has allowed the contagion of my writings into your soul, it will protect you with cheap tricks to get you back to the life of a regular person. But even if that is not the case, that is, even if you do not have the worker-ant immune system, that suggests that you are one of those who can digest me, assimilate me, and grow from me.
So do not be too worried. My support extends beyond words. If you ever feel the need to connect, I am here to listen and be there for you. There is help. Even if somehow you are a worker ant and yet, despite what I said, your immune system is failing to purge my insights, I can at least sit with you and be there for you. I can recommend other writers that can serve as the medicine to boost your immune response. Your buffer against the void will grow back. Together we can patch any holes in your protective atmosphere of delusion. Please reach out anytime: michael.istvan@gmail.com