Aneesh Sathe

Tag: writing

  • The Kernel and the Ark

    I. The Wall and the Infinite

    It is possible that the history of the modern West hinges on a single, melancholic misreading of Voltaire. When Candide, exhausted by the Lisbon earthquake and the brutalities of the Seven Years’ War, finally withdraws to the banks of the Propontis to utter his famous dictum—“Il faut cultiver notre jardin”—he is not proposing a program of agricultural management. He is issuing a plea for containment. To cultivate a garden, in the shadow of such overwhelming chaos, is an act of stoic resignation. It is an admission that the world is too vast, too violent, and too unintelligible to be governed by reason. One builds a wall against the infinite, and within that limited circumference, one tends to the soil. The garden is a refuge from nature.

    Childe Hassam – The Island Garden

    Yet, as the industrial century unfolded, this sentiment underwent a strange inversion. The humility of the retreat was lost, replaced by a technocratic ambition that saw the wall not as a limit, but as a prototype. The imperative shifted: it was no longer enough to carve out a sanctuary from the planetary wild; the logic of the garden was to be extended until it covered the earth entirely. The garden ceased to be a refuge and became a replacement.

    We might trace the genealogy of this hubris—the architectural drift from the bounded plot to the total interior. It is a lineage that moves from the Victorian parlor terrarium to the Amazonian plantation, and finally to the hermetically sealed domes of the American desert. It suggests that the dominant form of the Anthropocene is not the city or the factory, but the Greenhouse: a glass ark designed to optimize life by severing it from its context.

    Against this transparent, frictionless interior, a different topology emerges. It is not the pristine wilderness, which is a romantic fiction, but something denser, more obscure, and paradoxically more vital. It resembles the “thicket”—a space of entanglement and opacity where the metabolic resistance to simplification can still be found. To understand why the thicket has become a necessary philosophical posture, one must first walk the perimeter of the glass house we have built around ourselves.

    II. The Portable Climate

    Control, it seems, begins with isolation. Before a system can be optimized, it must be severed from the noise of its environment. In the history of botany, this severance was achieved not by a grand theorist, but by a London surgeon named Nathaniel Bagshaw Ward, who, in 1829, found himself frustrated by the industrial smog of Whitechapel.

    Ward’s ferns were dying, choked by the soot of the coal age. His discovery was accidental: while observing a sphinx moth pupa buried in a sealed glass jar containing damp soil, he noticed a quiet miracle. The fern spores within the soil had sprouted. Moisture evaporated from the earth, condensed on the cold glass, and wept back down in a closed hydrological loop. The fern thrived, suspended in a permanent, self-sufficient spring, protected from the London fog by a skin of glass.

    This device, the Wardian Case, appears initially as a trivial curiosity of the Victorian parlor. Yet it functioned as the first space capsule. Before the glass case, the botanical world was defined by the tyranny of the local. Plants were bound to their terroir; they could not easily cross the climatic abyss of the oceans without perishing from salt spray or temperature shock. Nature was situated. The Wardian case smashed this locality. It created a portable micro-climate, a fragment of the English garden that could survive the equator, or a slice of the tropics that could endure the North Sea.

    The British Empire, always attuned to the logistics of extraction, immediately recognized the power of this portable interior. The case allowed biological life to be stripped of its ecological web and transported as pure genetic capital. In 1848, Robert Fortune utilized these glass arks to smuggle twenty thousand tea plants from Shanghai to the Himalayas, breaking the Chinese monopoly and inaugurating the Indian tea industry. Decades later, Henry Wickham would carry Hevea brasiliensis seeds from Brazil to Kew Gardens, and thence to Malaya, an act of biological relocation that would collapse the Amazonian rubber boom and fuel the coming automobile age.

    There is a profound shift in ontology here. The plant inside the case is no longer an organism in conversation with its environment; it has become a “generic input,” severed from the specificities of wind, soil, and insect life. This marks the onset of a biological imperialism where the “garden” is no longer a place one visits, but a box one ships. It represents the victory of the grid over the ocean, the smooth logistics of empire over the rough friction of the earth.

    And yet, the closure was never complete. The soil inside those cases carried more than the intended crop; it held what historians call “portmanteau biota”—ants, fungi, earthworms, and weeds. The empire believed it was moving tea, but it was also moving the feral. The “crazy ant” (Paratrechina longicornis) hitched a ride in these portable interiors, beginning a global insurgency that persists to this day. The glass ark, designed to exclude the chaotic outside, had already smuggled the chaos within.

    III. The Geometry of the Plantation

    If the Wardian case was the molecular unit of this logic, the early twentieth century saw its expansion into a totalizing landscape. The ambition was no longer merely to transport plants, but to rationalize the very environment in which they grew—to smooth out the “thicket” of the world into a legible, productive surface. This is the logic of what Timothy Morton has termed agrilogistics: the ancient program to eliminate contradiction and enforce a monoculture of presence.

    The apotheosis of this drive is found in Fordlandia. In 1928, Henry Ford, seeking to break the British rubber monopoly, purchased 2.5 million acres of the Amazon rainforest. He did not see a complex, metabolic web; he saw a disorder to be rectified. He attempted to overlay the industrial grid of Detroit onto the biological density of Brazil.

    Fordlandia was less a farm than a moral project. Ford, who despised the “messiness” of history and the disorderly lives of his workforce, sought a clean slate. His engineers cleared the jungle—a thicket of unimaginable complexity—and planted rubber trees in tight, geometric rows. They imposed the discipline of the factory clock, the nutritional regime of oatmeal, and the social ritual of square dancing upon indigenous workers. The land was treated as a terraformed plain, the rubber tree as a standardized cog that would function identically regardless of its context.

    But Hevea has a specific terroir. In the wild, rubber trees space themselves out, a natural distancing that serves as an immune system against the South American Leaf Blight (Microcyclus ulei). The distance is the friction that stops the pathogen. By collapsing this distance, by planting the trees in the smooth, efficient rows of the industrial grid, Ford created a banquet for the fungus.

    The thicket struck back. The blight moved effortlessly along the vectors of the plantation. The friction of biodiversity had been removed, leaving the path clear for the pathogen. Ford poured capital into pesticides, but the “liveness” of the fungus—its capacity to metabolize the static monoculture—was superior to the dead geometry of the plan.

    Fordlandia stands as a parable of the “average.” It illustrates the failure of scaling. One cannot scale terroir without stripping it of its defenses. When a “kernel”—a specific life in a specific context—is treated as a “cog,” it becomes a zombie system: structurally fragile, waiting for the first shock to induce collapse. The attempt to average out the Amazon failed because liveness is inherently non-scalable; it relies on the very friction that the grid seeks to eliminate.

    IV. The World Interior of Capital

    The failure of the plantation did not arrest the desire for enclosure; it merely drove it indoors. In the post-war era, facing the twin specters of nuclear annihilation and ecological exhaustion, the West embraced the metaphor of “Spaceship Earth.” Popularized by Buckminster Fuller, this concept reimagined the planet not as a mother, but as a vehicle—a mechanical artifact with finite resources, an operating manual, and a need for a pilot.

    Fuller’s architectural response was the geodesic dome. He envisioned domes spanning midtown Manhattan to regulate the weather, and “Cloud Nine” spheres floating in the sky, severing humanity entirely from the earth’s crust. This marks the transition to what Peter Sloterdijk calls the “World Interior of Capital.” We ceased to live on the earth and began to live inside a climate-controlled sphere. The shopping mall, the office tower, the sealed automobile—these are foams, interconnected bubbles of immunity where the atmosphere is conditioned and the outside is held at bay.

    This logic reached its terminal velocity in 1991 with Biosphere 2. A literal attempt to build a total garden, it was a hermetically sealed glass box in the Arizona desert, containing a miniature rainforest, an ocean, and a desert, along with eight humans. It was designed to prove the viability of a “closed loop” system, a portable world for the colonization of Mars.

    Its failure was instructive. The oxygen levels inside the dome plummeted, not because of a mechanical leak, but because the concrete structure itself began to absorb carbon dioxide, starving the plants. The dead matter of the architecture was eating the air. Simultaneously, the “noble” species—hummingbirds and bees—perished, while the feral species exploded. The same crazy ants that had traveled in the Wardian cases overran the facility. Cockroaches multiplied. Morning glory vines choked the curated rainforest.

    The human element fared no better. The “crew,” trapped in the smooth proximity of the enclosure, devolved into factionalism. The psychological friction of a world without an “outside” proved unbearable. Biosphere 2 demonstrated that smoothness is chemically and socially unstable. The total interior is a death trap because it lacks the metabolic capacity of the outside. By attempting to eliminate the “weed,” the designers destroyed the immune system of the whole. The ants won because they were the only inhabitants adapted to the high-friction reality of the thicket.

    V. The Monoculture of the Sky

    We arrive, finally, at the present moment, where the ambition of enclosure has ascended to the stratosphere. Having failed to contain the world in a box, the technocratic impulse has turned to the project of turning the world itself into the box.

    This is the logic underpinning geoengineering and Solar Radiation Management. Proposals to inject sulfate aerosols into the upper atmosphere to deflect sunlight represent the ultimate Wardian case. They treat the atmosphere not as a chaotic, sublime force, but as a glazing—a roof whose opacity can be adjusted like a dimmer switch. The planet becomes a single, managed interior.

    The risks of such a project—”termination shock,” where a cessation of spraying unleashes accumulated heat in a sudden, lethal wave—are well documented. But the philosophical implication is perhaps even more chilling. As John von Neumann warned decades ago, weather control merges the affairs of every nation. It eliminates the “outside” entirely. There is no longer British weather or Brazilian weather; there is only The System.

    This is the realization of the terraformed plain. It is a world where the “dark forest” has been illuminated and managed, where the sun itself is converted into a utility, and where the planet becomes a monoculture of the sky.

    VI. The Strategy of the Briar Patch

    If the trajectory of modernity is the construction of a fragile, optimized glass ark, where does one find a footing? We cannot return to Voltaire’s garden; the walls are too brittle to hold back the flood. Nor can we resign ourselves to the suffocating interior of Fuller’s dome.

    The alternative lies in the texture of the thicket.

    In the folklore of the American South, there is the story of Br’er Rabbit and the Briar Patch. When captured by the Fox, the Rabbit pleads, “Don’t throw me in the briar patch!” The Fox, operating on the logic of the predator who prefers the open field, views the briar patch as a torture device—thorny, messy, illegible. He throws the Rabbit in, expecting him to be shredded. But the Rabbit was born in the briar patch. The thorns that cut the Fox are the Rabbit’s defense system.

    The modern Fox is the algorithm, the market, the scraper seeking legible data. It desires smoothness. The briar patch represents the local context, the dense history, the “terroir” that resists easy summarization. The thicket is not a retreat into nature, but a strategic niche. It suggests that to survive the simplifying gaze of the machine, one must become “high-friction.”

    This requires a redefinition of “liveness.” Liveness is not mere novelty; it is metabolic capacity. The glass ark is a zombie system—a closed loop where inputs equal outputs, preserving form but preventing transformation. The thicket, by contrast, is a fermenter. It takes generic energy—shocks, news, pain—and metabolizes it through a specific kernel to produce something singular.

    We see this in the difference between a product and a practice. If one moves a global franchise from Seattle to Singapore, it functions perfectly because it is dead; it is a product, severed from place. If one attempts to move a philosophy like Fichte’s from the salons of Jena to a corporate boardroom, it withers. It requires the nutrient density of its specific scene to survive. It is alive because it is entangled.

    Gilles Clément, the French gardener, offers a vocabulary for this posture. He speaks of the “Planetary Garden” not as a machine to be controlled, but as a “Garden in Motion.” He directs our attention to the “Third Landscape”—the roadside verges, the abandoned lots, the scrublands. These are the thickets. They are the reservoirs of genetic diversity where the unscripted life, banished from the monoculture, continues to evolve.

    VII. A Gesture Toward the Weed

    The history of the West has been a long war against the weed. We built glass cases to distinguish the valuable specimen from the unwanted intruder. We cleared the Amazon to impose the average. We networked the globe to smooth out the friction of distance.

    Yet the weed—the superweed that drinks poison and thrives—remains the victor. The thicket is the inevitable return of complexity to a system that tries to simplify it.

    The task, then, is not to build a better glass house, but to learn the habits of the briar patch. It is a call to abandon the pursuit of the fragile, legible career or identity—the “glass ark” of the self—and to cultivate a life of density and opacity. To be a fermenter rather than a node. To seek resonance rather than scale.

    In a world that seeks to turn every subject into a cog within a planetary spaceship, the most radical act is to become an un-weedingable root—a kernel of such high-dimensional specificity that the algorithm chokes trying to digest it. We should not simply cultivate our garden. We should allow the fence to rot, and watch what grows in the clearing.

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  • The Deep Dark Terroir of the Soul

    This is the third and final part of the Thicket Series:
    Part 1: Logic of the Thicket and the Unsearchable Web
    Part 2: The Architecture of Resistance

    The history of the working subject might be best understood not as a ledger of wages or a sequence of industrial breakthroughs, but as a study in the migration of the Master. In the eighteenth century, the Master was a concrete presence, a figure residing in the castle or the cathedral, distinct from the worker by a physical and social chasm. One knew where the authority lived because one could see the smoke from its chimneys. By the nineteenth century, this figure had moved into the factory office, closer to the rhythm of the machine but still identifiable by the suit and the watch. The twentieth century saw a further dissolution; the Master became atmospheric, blending into the very walls of the institutions that housed us—the schools, the hospitals, the barracks.

    And yet, it is in the twenty-first century that we witness the final and perhaps most unsettling migration. The Master has moved inside. It has taken up residence within the worker’s own mind, adopting the voice of the ego and the language of self-optimization. This internal migration has fundamentally altered the nature of exhaustion, shifting it from the physical depletion of the muscle to a profound infarction of the soul. To understand how we might resist such an intimate occupation, we must trace the lineage of this fatigue, moving from Voltaire’s eighteenth-century refuge of the Garden to the contemporary diagnosis of the Burnout Society, and finally, to an emerging architecture of resistance that might be called the Logic of the Thicket.

    Felsenlandschaft im Elbsandsteingebirge Caspar David Friedrich1822/1823

    The story begins in 1759, amid the wreckage of a world governed by grand, often violent, narratives. When Voltaire published Candide, the prevailing philosophical mood was one of forced optimism. Leibniz had posited that we lived in “the best of all possible worlds,” a claim that felt increasingly like a cruel joke to those living through the arbitrary brutalities of the era—the Lisbon earthquake, the Seven Years’ War, and the relentless inquisitions of both church and state. For the subject of the 1700s, the Master was external and undeniable. Life was a sequence of calamities administered from above.

    In the final pages of Candide, after a lifetime spent traversing a world of rape, slavery, and disaster in search of Leibnizian meaning, the protagonist reaches a quiet, radical conclusion. He rejects the grand debates and the lofty theorizing of his companions with a simple, grounded imperative: Il faut cultiver notre jardin—we must cultivate our garden.

    At this historical juncture, the Garden was more than a hobby; it was a strategy of containment. It served as a physical and psychological wall against a world that had grown too chaotic to manage. Voltaire suggested that simple, manual labor was the only effective shield against the primary threats of the human condition, which he identified as the Three Evils: Boredom, Vice, and Need. In the Garden, work was a form of retreat. It solved the problem of Need by providing physical sustenance—potatoes and produce—at a time when biological survival was never guaranteed. It addressed Boredom by occupying the hands and the mind with the repetitive, rhythmic care of the earth, saving the worker from the existential dread of idleness. And it warded off Vice by providing a sanctuary from the moral decay of the court and the city, replacing political intrigue with the honest friction of the soil.

    The Garden was a place of safety because it was bounded. To work was to narrow one’s world to the reach of one’s own hands, creating a small, controllable private sphere where the Master’s voice was, for a moment, silenced by the sounds of the harvest.

    However, this sanctuary could not withstand the arrival of the steam engine. As the nineteenth century progressed, the Garden was paved over by the Factory. The peasantry was pulled from the land and funneled into the burgeoning cities, where the nature of labor underwent a violent transformation. Karl Marx, observing this shift, identified the collapse of Voltaire’s dream. In the industrial setting, the worker could no longer cultivate a garden because they owned neither the seeds nor the harvest. They did not even own their own time.

    This was the era of Coercion. Marx’s diagnosis of Alienation described a worker severed from the product of their labor, from the act of production, and from their own Gattungswesen, species-essence. The Master was now the Capitalist, and exhaustion was a physical reality—a depletion of calories and muscle. Resistance, accordingly, was also physical: the strike, the riot, the seizure of the machine. The goal was to reclaim the physical Garden that had been stolen.

    As we moved into the twentieth century, the nature of control shifted again. Physical coercion, while effective, was inefficient; it bred visible resentment and the constant threat of revolution. Systemic power realized it was far more effective to train workers to police themselves. Michel Foucault described this as the Disciplinary Society, where the factory model was replicated across all social institutions. The governing logic became the Panopticon—the internalized gaze. The worker of this era was a docile body, governed by the operating verb Should. You should be on time; you should follow procedure. While the Master was becoming more abstract—a set of norms rather than a man in a tall hat—the enemy was still technically outside. There was still a door one could walk through at the end of a shift.

    The true transformation occurred at the turn of the twenty-first century, a transition captured with clinical precision by Byung-Chul Han. Han argues that the Disciplinary Society has collapsed, replaced by the Achievement Society. The modal verb has shifted from Should to Can. The demand is no longer “You must obey,” but “Yes, you can.”

    This shift has proven catastrophic for the psyche. In the old world of coercion, there was a limit; when the shift was over, the worker was, in a sense, free. But in the Achievement Society, the worker is an “entrepreneur of the self.” We are no longer exploited by an external boss so much as we exploit ourselves. We voluntarily work eighty hours a week not because of a threat of the lash, but because of a desire to “optimize” our personal brands and “reach our potential.”

    The Master has completed its migration. We carry the Panopticon in our pockets and in our egos. In this state, the Garden is no longer a retreat; it has become a performance stage. We still cultivate, but we do so frantically, documenting the process for the digital gaze, tracking our productivity metrics, and feeling a gnawing guilt that our harvest isn’t as aesthetic or impactful as our neighbor’s. The boundary between the private and the public has dissolved into a smooth, legible –searchable– surface.

    In this environment of total transparency, the Three Evils have mutated into contemporary monsters. Need is no longer about physical starvation; it has become Status Anxiety—the insatiable requirement for recognition and digital legibility. Boredom has been replaced by Hyper-Attention; we are never idle, but we are never at rest, trapped in a shallow, frantic multitasking that Han calls the “vice of the click.” And Vice itself has become Self-Exploitation—the auto-aggression of working oneself into a depression under the guise of self-fulfillment.

    By 2024, the smoothness of our digital existence had become total. Silicon Valley had successfully turned the world into a frictionless landscape where data and capital flow without resistance. Algorithms now manage the Uber driver and the freelance coder alike, using gamification to nudge behavior through a mathematical black box. We have become Tourists in a digital world built by others, wandering through clean, well-lit interfaces that prioritize searchability, SEO, above all else. If a thing is legible, it can be indexed; if it is indexed, it can be exploited.

    This brings us to the threshold of 2025 and the emerging response found in the Logic of the Thicket. If the Garden was a strategy of containment and the Factory was a site of coercion, the Thicket is a strategy of opacity.

    A thicket is not a garden. It is messy, dense, and difficult to navigate. It does not possess the neat rows or the clear boundaries of Voltaire’s refuge. Instead, it is defined by friction. To resist the smoothness of the modern Achievement Society, the worker must transition from being a Tourist to being an Explorer. The Tourist consumes intelligibility—the ease of the app, the clarity of the interface. The Explorer, by contrast, generates place through the introduction of friction.

    The Logic of the Thicket suggests that we cannot return to the eighteenth-century Garden. The walls are too brittle; databases will index the soil and an AI will recommend the fertilizer before the first seed is planted. Instead, the modern subject must create contexts that are unsearchable. This does not mean a total withdrawal from the world, but rather an engagement on terms that are too complex, too local, and too nuanced for an algorithm to easily optimize.

    We might re-examine Voltaire’s Three Evils through the lens of this new architecture to see if the Thicket offers a viable path forward.

    First, consider the evil of Need. In our current context, Need has become the fear of Irrelevance. In a smooth world, the worker is a standard, interchangeable part. If your work is legible—easy to measure and automate—you live in constant fear of economic obsolescence. This is the condition of the smooth professional: the software engineer whose code is indistinguishable from the output of a Large Language Model, the copywriter producing content that mirrors a thousand other blog posts, or the middle manager whose primary function is the transmission of standardized project plans. These roles are vulnerable because they lack friction; they offer no resistance to the efficiency of the machine.

    The Thicket addresses this through the concept of Terroir. In the culinary world, terroir refers to the specific qualities of soil, climate, and tradition that give a wine or a cheese its unreplicable character. In the world of labor, terroir is the infusion of one’s work with local context, historical depth, and human idiosyncrasy.

    For this blog, the terroir is found in the deliberate, often difficult work of communal deep-reading and historical synthesis. Here, history is not viewed as a sequence of headlines, but as a series of vast, slow-moving machines—intellectual contraptions that take centuries to build and even longer to fully start. By examining the past through this mechanical lens, the thinker begins to see the world not as a “smooth” stream of current events, but as a dense thicket of long-term trajectories.

    The process behind this blog—reading deep into difficult texts, engaging in exhaustive discussions with other thinkers, and synthesizing these influences through a deliberate collaboration with artificial intelligence—is itself a “thick” form of labor. It is a method of finalizing thought that creates a durable value, one that cannot be mimicked by a prompt-engineered shortcut. By making your work “thick”—laden with specific references, local nuances, and the friction of deep thought—you make yourself un-automatable. The machine can navigate a smooth database, but it struggles to traverse a thicket of idiosyncratic human insights that are anchored in the deep time of historical machinery. The Thicket ensures survival not by making the worker more efficient, but by making them indispensable through their unique, unsearchable “friction.”

    Next, the evil of Boredom has mutated into Passive Consumption. We are over-stimulated but spiritually idle, doom-scrolling through a world where nothing we do actually changes the environment. We are Tourists in the digital landscape, consuming the “intelligibility” of others. The Thicket solves this by demanding active navigation. In a world where algorithms predict what we want before we know it, the Thicket reintroduces the struggle of discovery. You cannot be “bored” when you are bushwhacking through a complex structure of your own making, or when you are trying to understand the slow grinding of a historical machine that began its first revolution centuries ago. The joy of the Thicket is the joy of the Explorer—the realization that the landscape is resisting you, and that you must exert agency to move through it.

    Finally, Vice has become Algorithmic Complicity—the moral laziness of letting an interface decide who we speak to, what we read, and how we spend our time. It is the vice of “disindividuation,” allowing ourselves to be smoothed down into a demographic data point. The Thicket forces a return to Virtue through Agency. To build a thicket is to refuse to be effortlessly “known.” It requires the “virtue” of privacy and the patience of shared inquiry. A “network” is smooth; you connect with a click. A “community” is a thicket; it requires negotiation, trust, and the willingness to engage with the “messiness” of other people. It requires the slow effort to inhabit a text that refuses to be summarized by an executive summary or a bulleted list.

    The journey from 1759 to 2025 is a circle that does not quite close. Voltaire’s worker fled the violence of kings into the Garden, seeking a physical retreat. Marx’s worker lost that garden and fought to reclaim the tools. Han’s worker internalized the factory, turning their own mind into a sweatshop of positivity. And the worker of 2025 now realizes that the mind itself has been mapped.

    The only remaining escape is to leave the Garden—which has become a trap of transparency—and enter the Thicket. There is a critical difference here: the Garden was intended to be safe, but the Thicket is defensive. It is a posture for a hostile territory. It saves us from Boredom by making life difficult again. It saves us from Vice by requiring conscious choice rather than algorithmic default. And it saves us from Need by ensuring we remain human enough that the machines cannot find a way to replace the specific texture of our presence.

    It is a harder path than the one Candide chose, but in a world where the Master lives in the code, it may be the only path left. The mandate for the contemporary soul is no longer simply to cultivate, but to grow something so dense and so deeply rooted that the algorithm, for all its processing power, simply cannot find the way in. We look toward the edge of the woods, not for a way out, but for a way to disappear into the depth of the growth.

    Coda: The Machinery of the Thicket

    This essay is not merely a reflection on labor; it is a byproduct of the very “Logic of the Thicket” it describes. To write it was to engage in a form of “thick” labor—a deliberate resistance to the high-speed, surface-level synthesis typical of the Achievement Society. Below is the intellectual architecture and the process that generated this piece.

    The Conceptual Bedrock

    The essay’s trajectory is built on a specific lineage of thinkers who have tracked the migration of power from the town square into the central nervous system:

    • Voltaire (Candide, 1759): Provides the initial defensive posture—the Garden. His “Three Evils” (Boredom, Vice, Need) serve as the recurring benchmarks for human exhaustion.1
    • Karl Marx: Used here to mark the collapse of the private garden. The transition from Sustenance to Alienationis the first great rupture in the history of the working subject.
    • Michel Foucault: His concept of the Disciplinary Society and the Panopticon explains how the Master became “atmospheric.” It is the era of the “Should.”
    • Byung-Chul Han (The Burnout Society): The pivotal contemporary influence. Han’s shift from the “Should” (Foucault) to the “Can” (Achievement) explains why modern exhaustion is an “infarction of the soul.”
    • Yuk Hui: His work on Technodiversity and the “recursive” nature of history informs the transition from the Tourist to the Explorer. He suggests that we cannot escape technology, but we must diversify our localrelationship to it.

    The Process: Generating “Terroir”

    The writing of this piece followed a “thick” methodology designed to avoid the “smooth” output of standard digital content:

    1. Deep Reading as Resistance: Instead of relying on summaries, the process involved “bushwhacking” through the primary texts. This creates Friction—the slow realization of meaning that cannot be automated.
    2. Mechanical Synthesis: Viewing history as a series of Slow-Moving Machines. By treating the transition from the Printing Press to the LLM as a mechanical evolution rather than just “progress,” we can see the gears of authority shifting.
    3. Collaborative Friction (AI as a Grinding Stone): Rather than using AI to generate the text, it was used as a sparring partner to test the “thickness” of the ideas. If the AI could predict the next point too easily, the point was discarded as being “too smooth.”
    4. The Infusion of Local Context: The essay intentionally uses specific, non-indexable metaphors—like the Thicket and Terroir—to anchor the abstract philosophy in a visceral, earthy reality.

    The Goal: The Unsearchable Life

    The ultimate aim of this “Coda” is to encourage the reader to see their own intellectual life as a Terroir. The “Master in the code” thrives on standardized, legible data. By engaging in deep history, difficult synthesis, and private creation, you grow a thicket. You become a “place” that is too complex for a map, a subject that is too dense for an algorithm, and a worker whose exhaustion is finally, once again, your own.

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  • The Architecture of Resistance

    The seventeenth-century Hague, the mid-twentieth-century Levant, and the digital terraforming of 2025 have a shared preoccupation with the “Average.” Whether it is the theologian’s way or predictive stats, control begins by smoothing out the landscape. The project of power is a project of cartography and illumination—an attempt to banish the dark corners where the unmapped might grow. Thus, the history of resistance, of being “against the world”, is less a history of rebellion than a history of seeking cover.

    The Large Piece of Turf, 1503 Albrecht Dürer

    In Spinoza’a world, legibility was the cosmos in an ordered hierarchy. Meaning descended from an external judge and was mirrored by the terrestrial proxy of the King and more often the priest. Behavior was aligned to the “Scriptural Average.” A pre-written behavioral code that transformed the conatus—that primal drive to persist and expand—into the passive states of hope and fear. By removing the external judge, Spinoza suggested that freedom is found in the intellectual mastery of the causes that move us. A pushback against the “average pious subject,” asserting that every individual is a necessary, logical expression of an infinite substance. There is no error in the world, only the lack of a thick enough understanding to perceive the necessity of one’s own outlier status. 

    With this position, and self assurance, Spinoza became illegible to his friends, his doting teacher, and his community. He was cast out, but his thoughts are the seeds of today’s world. 

    In the Beirut and Damascus of the mid-twentieth century, the imposition of legibility took the form of the “Citizen-as-Monument.” It was a world of endings, where identity was a frozen artifact of nationalist scripts and religious orthodoxies. The poet Adonis, through Mihyar, pushes against this world not by asserting a new identity, but through a “movement of erasure.” If a stable interior is to form, it is to be quickly discarded. A stable interior is merely another coordinate, a dependable predictor, for the state to map. Mihyar becomes a “knight of strange words,” defined by the iltifat—the sudden turn away. By peeling back the layers of the social mask and embracing a radical anonymity, he counters the stagnant city. He exists as a hot wind, something that is felt through its movement and friction, yet remains entirely unsearchable by the collective grammar.

    We have entered a third world, a digital landscape that functions as a terraformed plain. It is, in a sense, a Spinozan monism—all data is one substance—but it is a substance managed by a Leibnizian bureaucracy of optimization. The mechanism of control is no longer the scripture or the state monument, but the “Mechanical Harmony” of the statistical mean. A decade ago this was social media shaping votes. Today’s AI tools, perhaps inadvertently and perhaps not,  impose an “averageness” on thought itself, by providing the next likely response and hiding the outlier. This is a form of disindividuation disguised as efficiency, a smoothing of the world’s texture until it becomes a frictionless surface for the sake of searchability.

    What emerges as a necessary response is the logic of the thicket. If the terraformed plain is the habitat of the tourist—where everything is predicted, optimized, and known—the thicket is the habitat of the explorer. It is a deliberate architecture of complexity, an insistence on terroir and the messy, non-replicable context of the local. To build a thicket is to re-introduce friction into a world too smooth. We are apes inhabiting the long tail. Like Spinoza, our conatus withers under the umbrella the statistical mean. If every response is predicted, the individual ceases to be a cause and becomes merely a consequence of the architecture.

    To emerge, life itself needed discontinuities. The thicket provides the opacity necessary for the transforming process of the self to occur. It honors the uneven distribution of the world, providing a high-density environment of unique, complex encounters impossible in a flat plain. In this 2025 context, to be “against the world” is perhaps better understood as being a cultivator of these unsearchable spaces. The Dark Forest of the internet has created literal operating systems, habitats for our interconnected selves. Away from the violent imposition of the center, things can still happen by surprise. We seek cover in the thicket as a primal way of being where the emergent world remains deep enough to inhabit.

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  • The Tortured Artist Is So Yesterday

    41 years ago, Samuel Lipman wrote that an artist’s life is a “constant—and constantly losing—battle” against one’s own limits. That image has lasted because print culture taught us to imagine the artist as a solitary figure whose worth is measured by the perfection of a single, final work. Print fixed texts in place, elevated the individual author, and made loneliness part of the creative job description.

    That world is slipping away.
    And with it, the tortured artist.

    Twittering Machine (Die Zwitscher-Maschine) is a 1922 watercolor with gouache, pen-and-ink, and oil transfer on paper by Swiss-German painter Paul Klee

    LLMs have made competent expression abundant. The blank page no longer terrifies; anyone can produce something fluent and polished. When craft becomes cheap, suffering loses its meaning as a marker of artistic seriousness. What becomes scarce instead is the willingness to take a risk—not in private, but in public, where a stance can fail, provoke, or be reshaped by others.

    Venkatesh Rao recently argued that authorship is no longer about labor but about courage: the courage to commit to a line of thought and accept the consequences of being wrong. In an era of infinite variations, the decisive act is not creation but commitment. The value lies in staking something of yourself on an idea that may not survive.

    This shift is reshaping where culture is made. In what I’ve called the “Cloister Web,” people draft and explore ideas in semi-private creative rooms before carrying only a few into the open. LLMs make experimentation cheap; they also make commitment expensive. The hard part now is choosing which idea you are willing to be accountable for.

    As the burden of execution drops, something else rises: genuine collaboration. Not just collaboration with models, but with other humans. Andrew Gelman, reflecting on Lipman in a recent StatModeling post, noted that scientists, too, feel versions of this pressure of the solitary creator. In science, the burden rarely falls on one person. The struggle is distributed across collaborative projects that outlive any single contributor.

    Groups can explore bolder directions than any one creator working alone. Risk spreads, ideas compound, and the scale of what can be attempted expands. The solitary genius was an artifact of print; the collaborative creative lab is the natural form of the world we are entering.

    This leads to a claim many will resist but few will be able to ignore: the single author is beginning to collapse as a cultural technology. What will matter in the coming decades is not the finished artifact but the evolving line of thought carried forward by teams willing to take risks together.

    The tortured artist belonged to an age defined by scarcity, perfection, and solitude. Today’s creator faces a different task: to choose a risk worth taking and the collaborators worth taking it with. The work endures not because it is flawless, but because a group has committed to pushing it forward.

    Pain is optional now.

    Risk isn’t.

  • The Small God of the Internet

    It was a small announcement on an innocuous page about “spring cleaning”. The herald, some guy with the kind of name that promised he was all yours. Four sentences you only find because you were already looking for a shortcuts through life. A paragraph, tidy as a folded handkerchief, explained that a certain popular reader of feeds was retiring in four months’ time. Somewhere in the draughty back alleys of the web, a small god cleared his throat. Once he had roared every morning in a thousand offices. Now, when people clicked for their daily liturgy, the sound he made was… domesticated.

    He is called ArrEsEs by those who enjoy syllables. He wears a round orange halo with three neat ripples in it. Strictly speaking, this is an icon1, but gods are not strict about these things. He presides over the River of Posts, which is less picturesque than it sounds and runs through everyone’s house at once. His priests are librarians and tinkerers and persons who believe in putting things in order so they can be pleasantly disordered later. The temple benches are arranged in feeds. The chief sacrament is “Mark All As Read,” which is the kind of absolution that leaves you lighter and vaguely suspicious you’ve got away with something.

    Guide for Constructing the Letter S from Mira Calligraphiae Monumenta or The Model Book of Calligraphy (1561–1596) by Georg Bocskay and Joris Hoefnagel. Original from The Getty. Digitally enhanced by rawpixel.

    There was a time the great city-temples kept a candle lit for him right on their threshold. The Fox of Fire invited him in and called it Live Bookmarks.2 The moldable church, once a suit, then a car, then a journey, in typical style stamped “RSS” beside the address like a house number. The Explorer adopted the little orange beacon with the enthusiasm of someone who has been told there will be cake. The Singers built him a pew and handed out hymnals. You could walk into almost any shrine and find his votive lamp glowing: “The river comes this way.” Later, accountants, the men behind the man who was yours, discovered that candles are unmonetizable and, one by one, the lamps were tidied into drawers that say “More…”.

    ArrEsEs has lineage. Long before he knocked on doors with a bundle of headlines, there was Old Mother Press, the iron-fingered goddess of moveable type, patron of ink that bites and paper that complains. Her creed was simple: get the word out. She marched letters into columns and columns into broadsides until villages woke up arguing the same argument.3* ArrEsEs is her great-grandchild—quick-footed, soft-spoken—who learned to carry the broadsheet to each door at once and wait politely on the mat. He still bears her family look: text in tidy rows, dates that mind their place, headlines that know how to stand up straight.**

    Four months after the Announcement, the big temple shut its doors with a soft click. The congregation wandered off in small, stubborn knots and started chapels in back rooms with unhelpful names like OGRP4. ArrEsEs took to traveling again, coat collar up, suitcase full of headlines, knocking on back doors at respectable intervals. “No hurry,” he would say, leaving the bundle on the step. “When you’re ready.” The larger gods of the Square ring bells until you come out in your slippers; this one waits with the patience of bread.

    Like all small gods, he thrives on little rites. He smiles when you put his name plainly on your door: a link that says feed without a blush. He approves of bogrolls blogrolls, because they are how villages point at one another and remember they are villages. He warms to OPML, which is a pilgrim’s list people swap like seed packets. He’s indulgent about the details—/rss.xml, /atom.xml, /feed, he will answer to all of them—but he purrs (quietly; dignified creature) for a cleanly formed offering and a sensible update cadence5.

    His miracles are modest and cannot be tallied on a quarterly slide. He brings things in the order they happened. He does silence properly. The river arrives in the morning with twenty-seven items; you read two, save three, and let the rest drift by with the calm certainty that rivers do not take offense. He remembers what you finished. He promises tomorrow will come with its own bundle, and if you happen to be away, he will keep the stack neat and not wedge a “You Might Also Like” leaflet between your socks.

    These days, though, ArrEsEs is lean at the ribs. The big estates threw dams across his tributaries and called them platforms. Good water disappeared behind walls; the rest was coaxed into ornamental channels that loop the palace and reflect only the palace. Where streams once argued cheerfully, they now mutter through sluices and churn a Gloomwheel that turns and turns without making flour—an endless thumb-crank that insists there is more, and worse, if you’ll just keep scrolling. He can drink from it, but it leaves a taste of tin and yesterday’s news.

    A god’s displeasure tells you more than his blessings. His is mild. If you hide the feed, he grows thin around the edges. If you build a house that is only a façade until seven JSters haul in the furniture, he coughs and brings you only the headline and a smell of varnish6. If you replace paragraphs with an endless corridor, he develops the kind of seasickness that keeps old sailors ashore. He does not smite. He sulks, which is worse, because you may not notice until you wonder where everyone went.

    Still, belief has a way of pooling in low places. In the quiet hours, the little chapels hum: home pages with kettles on, personal sites that remember how to wave, gardeners who publish their lists of other gardeners. Somewhere, a reader you’ve never met presses a small, homely button that says subscribe. The god straightens, just a touch. He is gentler than his grandmother who rattled windows with every edition, but the family gift endures. If you invite him, tomorrow he will be there, on your step, with a bundle of fresh pages and a polite cough. You can let him in, or make tea first. He’ll wait. He always has.

    Heavily edited sloptraption.

    1. He maintains it’s saffron, which is what halos say when they are trying to be practical ↩︎
    2. The sort of feature named by a librarian, which is to say, both accurate and doomed. ↩︎
    3. Not to be confused with the software that borrowed her title and a fair chunk of her patience. ↩︎
    4. Old Google Reader People ↩︎
    5. On festival days he will accept serif, sans-serif, or whatever the village printer has not yet thrown at a cat.
      ↩︎
    6. He can drink JSON when pressed; stew remains his preference. ↩︎
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  • Looking Forward to Montaigne

    As part of the Contraptions book club we will be reading the Essays of Montaigne. I actually started to read the Donald Frame translations, but felt I needed more context. In the book club, Paul Millerd had recommended Sarah Blackwell’s book on the life of Montaigne. I just finished it and I was left feeling rather warm.

    Honorable Mr. Cat by Helen Hyde More: Original public domain image from Art Institute of Chicago

    In contrast I was left rather cold and unsure by a recent podcast on a recent book by Byung-Chul Han. The book is titled The Crisis of Narration and covers the idea that we have lost the ability to tell good stories. Stories, Han says, create a shared reality instead stories have been turned into a commodity to create consumers. Storytelling has become storyselling. As far as I know, Han doesn’t offer any solutions. Social media has turned a dark corner but it would have been nice to know what we can do, if anything. Montaigne seems to offer some relief.

    Being literally the first person to write essays, and btw a cat’s person, Montaigne writes in a way that one could think of as storyselling. But you look deeper and it turns out to not be the case. He writes in a frank and meandering way that reminds of the old internet. Dead for 500 years, M seems more real as a person than the influencers ever could.

    Now I just happen to have come across these two sources in a temporal coincidence, so, to quote Montaigne, what do I know, but writing and thinking like Montaigne could be the antidote to Han’s doom. Maybe we don’t need a global story thread, but knowing about how you thwarted the bugs in your balcony garden would create a sense of liveness that social media has stolen from us.

    I’ll be reading Don Quixote and Montaigne’s essays over the next two months and I’m certain my views will change. Right now, I’m thinking having the average, mediocre, lens to life will take us through these dark days.

    I leave you with two wonderful quotes (obviously about cats) from MdM:

    “When I play with my cat, who knows whether she is not amusing herself with me more than I with her.”

    “In nine lifetimes, you’ll never know as much about your cat as your cat knows about you.”

  • Work or Play? Ludic Feedback Loops

    In his substack post today, Venkatesh Rao wrote about reading and writing in the age of LLMs as playing and making toys respectively. In one part he writes about how the dopamine feedback loop from writing drove his switch from engineering to writing. For him, writing has ludic, play-like, qualities.

    Japanese vintage original woodblock print of birds and butterfly from Yatsuo no tsubaki (1860-1869) by Taguchi Tomoki.

    I have made almost all my “career” decisions as a function of play. I originally started off with a deep love of plants, how to grow them and their impact on the world. I was convinced I was going to have a lot of fun. I did have some. My wonderful undergrad professor literally hand held me through my first experiments growing tobacco plants from seeds. But that was about it. My next experiment was with woody plants and growing the seeds alone took 6 months, and by the end I had 4 measly leaves to experiment with. I quickly switched to cell biology.

    This one went a bit better and I stayed with the medium through PhD. Although I was having sufficient aha moments, I knew in the first year that it was still a bit slow. What rescued me was my refusal to do manual analysis. I loved biology but I refused to sit and do analysis manually. Luckily, I had picked up sufficient programming skills.

    I could reasonably automate, the analysis workflow. It was difficult at first but the error messages came at the rate I needed them to. I found new errors viscerally rewarding, it was now in game territory. The analysis still held meaning, it wasn’t for some random A/B testing or some Leet code thing. No, this mattered.

    Machine learning, deep learning, LLMs, and their applications in bio continue to enchant me. I can explore even more with the same effort and time. I interact with biology at the rate of dopamine feedback I need. I have found my ludic frequency.

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  • On Protocols, Wagons, and Associated Acrobatics

    Years ago, maybe a decade even, I fell in love with this software called Scrivener. I could never justify buying it because I didn’t actually write. But having that software would represent a little bit of the identity I would like to have, a writer. The Fourth of July long weekend gave me a running start. The plan was to write every day for a month. If I did, I would buy Scrivener. This was going quite well, then I couldn’t write for two days.

    I had fallen off the wagon. But hey, I have a wagon. Writing for twenty days isn’t nothing. Like David Allen says, getting back on the wagon is what it’s all about. Falling off happens because life happens. And life, happens to everybody. So, hey I’m back.

    I almost wasn’t. I almost said oh well. Then I watched the Summer of Protocols (SoP) town hall talk by Robert Peake: The Infinite Game of Poetry – Protocols for Living, Listening, and Transcending the Rules. The infinite game of poetry is the infinite game of writing. The important bit is to keep playing*.

    Being that this is part of the SoP, the question is of course what is the protocol? Robert goes much deeper than just the protocol of writing poetry and being a poet. He gives two equations for doing your life’s work and to build the self. I won’t reproduce those equations here, you should watch the talk.
    Here’s the gist of the poeting/writing protocol though:

    • To be a poet is observing the change in self: even when you are not writing you are noticing your inner environment, your outer environment and what you have read.
    • When you start to write, the change in self produces the writing, synthesis.
    • The writing is now part of the change in the self.
    • Sum of all noticing and synthesis is your life’s work
    • The self is is constructed, Robert says on the last day but I think its constructed continuously, through all the iterations of work.

    Tyler Cowen, who if nothing else, is a prolific wrote a similar, though not as compact, set in 2019.

    Zooming out, this applies to all work not just writing. Showing up and getting back on the wagon is where it all coalesces. But where am I going? To me, building wagons is as important as going somewhere with potential for something new, even if the path is uncertain. Pointing in the direction of maximal interestingness .

    This need for exploration and the support from constancy is captured well in the song Life in a Wind :
    “One foot in front of the other, all you gotta do, brother
    […]
    Live life in the wind, take flight on a whim”

    * The Scrivener team seems to understand this well. Their trial isn’t a consecutive thirty days, but thirty days of use 🙂

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  • The secret flag of content

    I don’t have any fun when I use LLMs to write. It may have perceived utility: popping out a LinkedIn article or two everyday. But I bet no one is actually reading. It’s a strip mall for a thumb stroll.  

    LLMs suck at writing. The summaries that LLMs give with the “Deep Research” are so poor in quality that I start to skim it. Yes, I skim the thing that is already a summary. 

    Let’s do a small experiment using the  Harry G. Frankfurt Essay On Bullshit: 

    Here are HGF’s opening lines: 

    “One of the most salient features of our culture is that there is so much bullshit. Everyone knows this. Each of us contributes his share.”

    Now here is ChatGPT o3, with the advantage of having HGF in the training data and extra contextualizing from me “theory of bullshit”: 

    Prompt: write me an introductory paragraph on the theory of bullshit 

     Result: “Bullshit isn’t just lying gone sloppy; it’s a distinct communicative strategy built on indifference to truth. Where the liar knows the facts and works to conceal or invert them, the bullshitter treats truth-value as irrelevant raw material—selecting, mixing, or inventing claims to achieve an effect (status, alignment, vibe) rather than to inform. The result is epistemic pollution: signals that…”

    Look! It’s the secret flag of “content”:  “Blah isn’t just X; Blah is Y”.

    AI generated flag. As dead as the text on it is wrong.

    I cannot assimilate this, it definitely can’t help me synthesize anything. There is always better human writing even if it is poorly written. It has a certain aliveness, and that aliveness is contagious enthusiasm. Vibe coding I can understand, you can see bad output in the final result. Vibe coding still manages to change something in my mind: knowing what I don’t want. 

    I don’t mind people using AI at all, I use it alllll the time. Writing with LLMs is no just fun. All this prompting and almost nothing changes in my mind. When an AI rearranges your thoughts it does not rearrange your brain. 

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  • What do platforms really do? 

    In 1986, David S. Landes wrote the essay, ‘What Do Bosses Really Do?’. He argues that the historical role of the ‘boss’ was an essential function for organizing production and connecting producers to markets. Digital platforms have become the new bosses. Platforms have the same functions of market creation, labor specialization, and management, but they have replaced the physical factory floor with algorithmic management. While their methods are novel, platforms are the direct descendants of the merchant-entrepreneurs and factory owners Landes described, solving the same historical problems of production in remarkably similar ways.

    Design for a Teacup (1880-1910) painting in high resolution by Noritake Factory. Original from The Smithsonian Institution. Digitally enhanced by rawpixel.

    So, why am I posting this on my own blog and not on a “platform”? I don’t view writing as a financial transaction. It is a hobby. By putting the financialization lens front and center, platforms are killing the mental space for hobbies. When you monetize tweets, you create incentive to craft tweets that create engagement in particular ways. Usually not healthy ways. 

    If we think of old media or traditional manufacturing, we can compare them to guilds. Guilds kept up prices and controlled production. With the simplification of tasks factories could hire workers who weren’t as highly skilled but didn’t need to be. Nowadays, why should any newspaper or TV channel’s output be limited by the amount of airtime or page space they have?

    Platforms take unskilled and train them. We are in the age of specialization of ideas.  Akin to the “the advantage of disaggregating a productive process”  Platforms leverage this by having many producers explore the same space through millions of different angles. This allows the platform to “purchase exactly that precise quantity of [skill] which is necessary for each process” —paying a viral star a lot and a niche creator a little, perfectly matching reward to market impact. Which is to say platforms make money through whatever sticks.  

    In Landes’s essay, Management became specialized, today management will become algorithmized. Platforms abstract away the issues that factory owners had such as embezzlement of resources, slacking off etc. Platforms don’t care how much or how little you produce, or even if you produce. If you do, the cash is yours (after a cut of course). 

    This may lead to a visceral reaction against platforms. This week when Substack raised a substantial amount they called the writers “the heroes of culture”. This should ring at least a tiny alarm in your head. The platform’s rhetoric of the creator-as-hero is a shrewd economic arrangement. In the putting-out system, the merchant-manufacturer “was able to shift capital expenditures (plant and equipment) to the worker”. Platforms do the same with creative risk. The writer, artist, or creator invests all the time and labor—the “capital” of creation—upfront. If they fail, they bear the entire loss. The platform, like the putter-outer, only participates in the upside, taking its cut from the successful ‘heroes’ while remaining insulated from the failures of the many.

    So what do platforms really do? They have resurrected the essential role of the boss for the digital age. They are the merchant-manufacturers who build the roads to market, and they are the factory owners who discipline production—not with overseers, but with incentive algorithms. By casting the creator as the hero, they obscure their own power and shift the immense risks of creative work onto the individual. While appearing to be mere background IT admins, they are, in fact, the central organizers of production, demonstrating that even in the 21st century, the fundamental challenges of coordinating labor and capital persist, and solving them remains, as it was in the 18th century, a very lucrative role.

    What Do Bosses Really Do?, David S. Landes, The Journal of Economic History, Vol. 46, No. 3 (Sep., 1986), pp. 585-623 (39 pages). https://www.jstor.org/stable/2121476

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