Deep Surface

This equation plagues me with the simple way it gives the mind a window into a much larger perspective. Infinity is a concept, not a number, so it can only be “approached.” It is more accurate to say that you (or I) become infinitely small when compared to infinity. Here’s what the equation really looks like.

Regardless of how it’s stated, we can see the insignificance of everything we do, everything we think about, and really anything in our human existence by comparing our lives to the infinite nature of the universe. So simple.

If this is seriously considered, it means everything in our lives becomes lighter. Infinitely lighter. No matter what happens to us, or what we do, it is no longer “heavy” to quote Back to the Future. For me, looking at life like this can be comical. I can see it all as meaningless, but still I get completely wrapped up in things.

One question that comes from this observation is, “Why do people do anything?” and “Why does anyone care about anything?” I could guess, or quote from a variety of theories that offer an answer, but that’s not the point of this post. I’m more interested in how awareness of individual insignificance can affect everyday life. How do we deal with this awareness that’s available just through a look into the night sky, or perhaps by watching an episode of NOVA? Most often, the infinite is just ignored. That’s what usually I do. Another common reaction is to believe in some story that allows for individuals to feel more important than we are.

One of my favorite recent stories is built around a possible moment in the near future called the Singularity. As this moment, artificial intelligence, and maybe human intelligence along with it, will be increasing so fast that it can overcome nearly any obstacle, expanding into the universe, probably with nanobots that replicate themselves and expand the reach of humanity indefinitely.

It could happen.

But currently, it’s just a story, and right now, we are infinitely insignificant - based on what we know about the Universe

Of what practical use is this perspective?

For one thing, none of our mistakes matter. There is no reason to achieve anything, so nothing is lost when we fail. There’s also nothing really to be scared of. All the possessions and even experiences that are sought after and maybe attained, they also qualify as nearly zero. The act of considering infinity can be a tool for locating true freedom. What is there to worry about if all experiences amount to a universal nul? Sure, there are possible periods of depression to deal with, but they pass like everything else.

The problem, for most of us, is that this belief that things matter is strong. It can’t be chased away by one look at the sky. We continue to go through our lives, getting completely absorbed in whatever is happening, when the reality of infinity is always there silently waiting to destroy any substance we may give our lives. I know that sounds negative, but it’s a real stress reliever.

A small hole.

This equation, You / ∞ = 0 does rest on a highly suspect assumption that there is a concrete division between you and the infinite Universe.

Other than that minor issue, this basic equation is pretty solid and points to a reality that’s a lot more sensible than the one most people inhabit.

Not knowing is a topic I return to again and again. I’m becoming more certain that I “know” not knowing, next to death awareness, is an extremely important aspect of true spirituality.

In his audio book, The End of Your World (which I highly recommend) Adyashanti was asked the very question he urges his students to ask themselves, “What do you know for sure?” He answered, “Nothing, but that I Am.”

I bought a book last night titled, The Religious Case Against Belief. So far, it’s a good book, starting with a quick summary of all the various texts from different religions that rely on embracing the mystery, or God’s will, or some other synonym for “lack of belief.”

When I was young I heard the quote, “The more I learn, the more I understand how little I know.” This concept of not knowing has been with me for a long time. As I have explored spiritual texts and teachings, there has never been one with the ring of truth that proclaimed to know something for sure. Embracing mystery, not knowing, and the quiet mind have always been cornerstones of what I felt to be true.

However, I buy more books, listen to more recordings, and write more about the subject, somehow trying to reach this state of not knowing with more knowledge. I rarely meditate and I avoid doing the one simple week-long practice I believe could lead to direct realization. Why? Is it fear? Is it the ego avoiding its own death? I honestly don’t know.

Last weekend I read The Ruins. It is a horror novel that’s been recently been made into a movie. I’m mentioning it here because of some themes that resonated with me - some of them which I was surprised to find in a novel from this genre. This post has been broken up into five (V) parts because I rarely read long posts any more and don’t expect anyone else to.

Spoiler Alert: Stop reading here if you have any interest in being surprised while reading the book or seeing the movie (assuming the movie turns out like the book).

A Brief Summary - The book has six main characters who end up being forced to spend several days on a hill covered with a strange flowering plant and the entrance to a mine at the top. Gradually it becomes clear that the Mayan community forcing them to stay on the hill has some sort of relationship with the plant, and may be offering them up as a sacrifice. Whatever the case, the plant is intelligent and proceeds to torture all of them in various ways. The plot description wouldn’t make me want to read it or go see the movie either, but it is a well-told tale with enough character development so the reader wants to know if anyone gets out alive.

Pointless Doing - Jeff, the planner of the group, who talks most of them into going on the fateful trip into the jungle, is always looking for some way to help the situation. He was an eagle scout and relishes the challenges that come up. When it is clear that there is no hope, he finds things to do and works through various scenarios in his head. When some of the others get drunk, they label Jeff as the hero, the one who would stay alive if there was a movie made about their situation. (What book like this wouldn’t be complete without some post-modern self reference?) When the plant eats the flesh right off one guy’s lower legs, it’s Jeff who convinces everyone to help cut the legs off to save the rest of him. He then cauterizes the wounds with a hot frying pan. He gets everyone to collect their urine while imagining how he might turn it into drinking water. There are other things, but you get the point. Jeff is constantly striving to change the situation, to do something - anything to make things better even after it’s clear that things will only get worse. In the end, none of it matters. Everyone dies.

In real life, all the stuff we do, that appears to have great importance as we’re doing it, is meaningless. We all die in the end.

Many Ways to Die - The plant has many ways of killing them. It lures them into a mine shaft that ends up paralyzing one character - the guy who’s legs get cut off. Another character some how gets some of the plant in her stomach and it chokes her to death as she vomits it up. One guy has some open wounds that the plant gets into. It slowly invades his body and moves around inside until he starts to freak out and cut himself open to get it out. The plant also has spores that grow on their clothes like mold, eating them away. Anything organic will eventually be consumed in the plant’s domain.

This lead me to think about all the different ways nature can kill us. We can get hit by a tree branch, get killed by a tumor, or contract some deadly virus. There are endless “natural” ways for us to die, large and small without even considering the many ways humans and our inventions can get us killed, but we always end up the same.

Echo Chamber At one point, several of the characters get drunk, two of the girls start fighting and calling each other names. The plant, they learn, can talk through it’s flowers (I’m not sure how). It starts to repeat the nasty things they say. At first it just parrots back certain words, then it starts feeding them scenarios just to make them upset, often repeating the offending phrases several times for maximum emotional effect.

This is exactly what our minds do (at least my mind). If I’m upset about some interaction I’ve had, it will play over and over in my head. Then my mind will make up alternative scenarios, maybe spool out stories about how things might play out in the future. Why do I pay attention to that crap? Why do you? It’s not more real than a story about a psychotic talking plant

Who am I? - The last person to die, Stacy, starts to ask some interesting questions before she slits her wrists to avoid being tortured to death by the plant. She also has some hope that her corpse will serve as a warning to others that come that way. No luck with that - the vines pull her body off the trail before it’s even dead.

She asks “Who am I?” and “Am I still me?” - repeating these questions several times. Days before she bravely slices into her forearms, she was referred to as “Spacey” by they others, typically not paying attention, lost in her own world. Slowly she is forced to see the horror of what’s happening to her and her companions. She’s force to pay attention and respond to what’s happening rather than hiding from it.

I think most people are like this at times - so lost in our mental world of thought and emotion that we often miss what’s going on right in front of us. We humans often overlook life as it’s happening. And we almost never ask ourselves honestly, “Who am I?” or “What defines me?” These questions and their variations are the same ones mystics urge us to ask ourselves. I found it interesting to see them in a horror novel.

Facing Fear - Some people think the horror genre should be avoided altogether, and assert that seeking out such entertainment is evidence of a disturbed mind or “pain-body.” I think these experiences are one more aspect of life to be embraced. Horror movies and books can be a relatively safe place to face our fears consider death. I’ve always been kind of a horror movie wuss, closing my eyes just as the music built and blood was about to flow. Now, instead of closing my eyes, I’ll remind myself of the layers of unreality that I’m avoiding.

These people are actors pretending to be in a made-up situation. I’m looking at a bunch of tiny colored lights that change color and brightness so fast that my mind doesn’t notice the gaps. Instead of running, I can look at my physical reactions, see if I can find out where they come from and what patterns might be revealed because it’s pretty clear that the tiny colored lights are not directly causing the uncomfortable reaction inside my body.

Facing the uncomfortable reactions on film seems like good practice for those rare times when there is something horrifying happening right in front of me. If I’m used to dealing with the patterns brough up by these fake scenarios my mind creates from words on paper or pixels of light, perhaps I’ll be able to deal with them better in “real life.”

From the article Blind to Change, Even as It Stares Us in the Face in the New York Times section:

…the results of change blindness studies and other experiments strongly suggest that the visual system can focus on only one or very few objects at a time, and that anything lying outside a given moment’s cone of interest gets short shrift. The brain, it seems, is a master at filling gaps and making do, of compiling a cohesive portrait of reality based on a flickering view.

“Our spotlight of attention is grabbing objects at such a fast rate that introspectively it feels like you’re recognizing many things at once,” Dr. Wolfe said. “But the reality is that you are only accurately representing the state of one or a few objects at any given moment.” As for the rest of our visual experience, he said, it has been aptly called “a grand illusion.” Sit back, relax and enjoy the movie called You.

I took up Twittering a few months ago, just to see what it was all about. Now I’m hooked, and have even less of a desire to post here. When I consider posting, this is what the process looks like, more or less:

1. An idea forms.
2. I start to write about that idea.
3. The idea turns into several paragraphs that resemble a blog post.
4. Memories of seeing this idea other places come up.
5. With a little research or conversation, it becomes clear that someone else - or perhaps a great many someones have spent time writing about this idea, examining it from many angles.
6. Reconsidering what I have written, it becomes clear that I’m covering no new ground.
7. I feel humbled and wonder about the point of spending more time fleshing out an idea that many others have considered more deeply.
8. I leave the blog post mostly private, often recording it in my Google Notebook and perhaps discussing the topic with family and friends.

Occasionally, I end up posting something before this entire process takes place or or because some personal experience seems worth communicating, but this happens rarely anymore.

There is still this urge to write publicly, to share, connect, and get feedback - all of which helps to reinforce the (apparently false) idea that I am real and have substance. So, in 140 characters or less, I Twitter something about what’s going at that moment, inserting those characters in the stream of many others who are doing the same thing. The only pressure I put on myself is to be slightly interesting or entertaining. If I’m not, so what? Those characters quickly wash by in the stream of others sharing their moments.

My most recent Twitter posts now show up in the sidebar of this site.