Philosophers Fingerpainting and Ballerinas Coding: A Celebration of Consilience

When I graduated high school I decided not to go to college. My friends, with stars in their eyes and scholarships in tow, looked at me sideways when I told them I wouldn’t be joining them.

The bulletin board in the library of my small, private school showed the plans of each senior after graduation. A majority of the names grandly circled the category “University.” A smattering of others respectably gathered around “International Service.” Then there was my name, hovering ostentatiously by the all too dubious category “Other.”

Not to be deterred, I decided to stay home and pay my parents back for everything they had done for me for the first 18 years of my life. I would do all the dishes, wash all the laundry and cook all the meals. A fittingly grand gesture to cover-up my lackluster expectations for the future.

Once my friends went off to college, I got to work. In the first two months, I perfected the art of baking bread from scratch, volunteered at a local bookstore and auditioned for the local theatre. I was feeling pretty great about my decision–no need for school for this boy!

So inevitably, on a terribly gray day, sitting in the bookstore flipping through a vintage issue of Spiderman, it occurred to me that I really did miss school. I’ve never been one for stubbornness, so it took about two minutes to convince myself I ought to go to college.

Applying to the liberal arts college in my city was simple enough, save for one awfully heavy decision. What was I going to major in?

Looking back now, the question seems quaint–an adorable quandary with the guise of gravitas. But at the time, my hazy assumption was that launching into a “major” in college meant the doors of your chosen society burst open wide for you and the world greets you as a professional.

“Welcome initiate. Ah! I see you’ve majored in [your major]! Your life path shall now include doing [your major] while earning [money/respect/fame]. If you stare across this wide chasm you can see [other majors] earning [money/respect/fame] doing [other majors].”

So I chose to major in Theatre. Though I was deeply interested in biology, computer science, math, philosophy and psychology, I could never imagine counting myself among the sullied ranks of the “undeclared” majors, so I stuck with it. The maze of life was laid before me and I chose my path and started running. Sure, I peeked over at other paths, but I never took a step backwards. I was headed toward the professional realm of theatre and that was that.

Problem is, I was working off of a model of professional development that now feels obsolete. This worldview of diverging paths leading toward ultimate professions is becoming less and less relevant. It may still be somewhat in tact for people born into familial dynasties: a celebrity with celebrity children, a service worker with service worker children.

If trade schools beget trade workers, what do liberal arts schools beget? Confused artists. Instead of a maze with one entrance and one exit, life had transformed into a Jackson Pollack painting of opportunity, failure and wondrous pipe dreams.

And you know what? Life still feels like that.

So for a stupefied millennial caught between a past generation of people with hard skills and an ever-shifting vision of the future, sculpting a “career path” feels like an act of futility. Instead of asking “what should we do?”, I choose instead to ask “how shall I live?” Perhaps too philosophical to be practical, but by answering the latter, the former may follow.

Now comes the time for my attempt at a metaphorical leap of faith: If the question on the table is “how shall I live?”, what if we use a scientific concept to answer a philosophical question?

Enter “consilience”.

Consilience is primarily a scientific term for strengthening a proof by providing diverse sets of evidence. For instance, if we ask “how fast is that car going?” we could provide evidence from a speedometer, a radar gun and a calculation of distance divided by time. All three ought to provide the same answer through different means of measurement. Thus we can more confidently answer the question. “The car was going 975 meters per second” and coincidentally “the car has vaporized.”

So what happens if we replace a measurement-based question of science with the more esoteric question “how shall I live?” What different forms of evidence would we need to come to a good conclusion?

In a sense, each one of us has answered, wittingly or not, this question of “how shall I live?” We answer it every day, by simply doing the things we’re doing. If you choose to write, work, love, kill or play facebook games, you’re answering that question every minute. The largest proponent of any of our answers is likely what we might call our “profession”.

So when asked the question, “how shall I live?” an engineer is answering differently than a dancer. A truck driver is answering differently than an accountant. A soldier differently than a preacher. A farmer differently than a cab driver.

So how can we create consilience in our venture to answer the big question? How can I answer the question as both a soldier and a preacher? As both a farmer and a cab driver?

My answer? Be curious about every damn thing in this world. Get rid of “career paths” and dive headlong into the wilderness of complexity. If I’m going to gather lots and lots of evidence, I can’t just be one thing!

This, of course, means getting rid of the presupposed identity I’ve cast upon myself. “I couldn’t do that, I’m an artist.” “I shouldn’t try this, I just flip burgers.” “I can’t dance, I’m a plumber.” By opening up my identity as “what I do” rather than “who I think I am”, I can step into any realm!

Most recently, I’ve been learning how to code–and let me be the first tell you, I’m not great at it. It takes me 20 lines of messy code to do what someone else can do in 2 elegant lines. So why do I bother? I’m not going to wow any coders anytime soon and coding sure doesn’t come up a lot in the rehearsal room. Why am I wasting my time?

Because of consilience. Coders see the world in a way I don’t, so I want to learn their language, both literally and figuratively. So instead of choosing to just see the world as a director or a performer, I can see it as a coder. Or a geologist, or a carpenter, or a clown. By gathering skills and knowledge in diverse areas, consilience can help me gather evidence for answering my ultimate question: “how shall I live?”

Now, I could be silly. Maybe I should stick to my guns. I should get good at something and push as hard as I can towards it. But there’s something in me that can’t do that. I need to keep learning. If I’m going to purport a solution to the question “how shall I live?” I ought to collect plenty of evidence.

So until my brain fully crystallizes and all my youthful plasticity is gone, you can find me flitting about, being an “Other” and running headlong into useless things I’m not very good at.

Philosophers Fingerpainting and Ballerinas Coding: A Celebration of Consilience

Journey to the Center of the Zero-Parameter Thought Experiment [Part 1]

Recently I was pondering why people like stories. Is it that they create a sense of imminent danger with swift resolution? Is it because they allow us to create recognizable patterns and watch them play out predictably? Perhaps they allow us to sense connection with other human beings who are also trapped in these exotic ghost-driven meat machines with a vague sense of purpose?

Those questions have produced lots of theories based mostly on neuroscience – exploring the brains patterning, empathy centers and chemical components. That’s all well and good, (well, actually it’s super duper fascinating) but I’m interested in something more specific. Why do you love stories? Why do you seek out the stories you do? Why do I?

In an attempt to explore this question, I was strangely reminded of a late-night conversation I had many years ago in a dorm room revolving around another question: What would you do if you could do anything?

If that seems like the exact kind of question a tipsy, naive, faux-philosophical freshman might ask, it’s because it is. However, to understand the question, you have to get rid of any assumed parameters. This isn’t about what job you want. This isn’t about what you would do with a million dollars. This isn’t what you want to be when you grow up. All these questions contain assumptions about economy, society and culture as well as even deeper assumptions of chemical properties, mathematics and physics.

If I remember right, that late-night dorm conversation devolved into imagining where the best hiding place might be if the zombie apocalypse happened. But I think the question merits a revisit.

At first glace the question seems nonsensical or cliche, but I think how you answer it reveals something about yourself and about how you like to experience story. The question could be asked another way: If you could live in any story, what story would you live in?

This will inevitably be an incomplete journey, as the thought experiment is, by definition, boundless. But lets take a walk and see where we end up!

So, you walk into a Denny’s and the greasy teenager behind the counter says, “By the by, I’m the master of the universe and you can do whatever you want now, boop!” You’re a little weirded out by this, but you order fries and a root beer and sit down at a booth by the window. You do feel a bit different, but this couldn’t be…could it? You look across the street and see a school bus. You blink your eyes and turn the bus blue. Then pink. Then green. 

Then you have a total existential meltdown, eat some fries and start down this very scary path: 

Question: If you could do anything, what would you do? [italics added for emphasis]

First step: Self-alteration

Assumptions: The Universe remains unchanged. 

Initially, my first thought is: “What super power do I want to have?” Flight would be awesome, if a little cliche. Invisibility would be terrible, because my retinas would be invisible too, meaning light couldn’t land anywhere in my eye, meaning I’d be blind. Maybe just a floating pair of eyes? Morbid.

Maybe it would be fun to go back to elementary school with all the knowledge I have now, though that would probably be an intensely lonely and frustrating existence. I would likely fulfill my fantasies of being a wunderkind in a couple of days and spend years frustrated with my peers. I don’t even want to touch the issue of sexuality.

We could even tone it back a bit, maybe just alter my appearance, intellect or charisma so I can achieve whatever life goals I might have more easily. I find this route tedious and boring. Mostly because it so quickly slides into self-deprecation, which is something we could all do with a little less of. This also includes things like staying the same age forever. Ugh, snore.

If I really want to get crazy, I could start imagining altering the chemicals in my brain to make myself happier. This seems like a scary rabbit hole, because if I just alter my brain so I feel happy, successful, at peace and accomplished, then I wouldn’t need powers anymore. This is really shades of Philip K. Dick, but I could just tell my brain not to worry about the my powers anymore and spend the rest of my life happy. Anyway, I don’t really need to tell stories or make friends or have ambition because I could program my brain to be happy without it.

Whoa. That got a little dark. Let’s move on before we just become euphoric vegetables.

What’s next: Altering other people

Assumptions: The Universe remains unchanged

This one starts with that old gem, “I want world peace,” the go-to answer for any conscientious school child or pageant contestant. Even though the sentiment is clear, the complexity of what “world peace” might mean is staggering. Does that mean creating enough resources and evenly distributing them? What about religious beliefs, do you make everyone have the same ethical and moral framework so they won’t fight? That seems a little presumptuous. What about national or social disputes, do you make everyone content? Again, that feels unfair.

You could always make someone fall in love with you. This feels even more petty than changing yourself to be more attractive to others. Could you live with yourself if you knew your “loving” relationship was just manufactured by your mystical powers?

On the other hand, it would be super cute to make other people fall in love. I could be a denizen of cupid and make grumpy people fall in love! For some reason this feels reasonable, but designing what “world peace” would constitute feels morally reprehensible.

Oh! Wouldn’t it be awesome to go into a crazy nightclub and immediately make everyone sober, alert and aware of everything around them? That might be super mean, but it would be hilarious to watch.

Or! You could set up a system whereby people who were unconsciously rude would be immediately struck with a full life-story of the person they just upset. “Hey watch it asshole!” Poof! “Aw…I didn’t know you built Lego villages when you were younger. I did too!”

Changing other people is a tricky subject. I’d want to enact either small changes or changes that complexify, rather than simplify, others’ world views. This also begs the question, how do we uphold a moral code when we have the ability to do anything? More on that later…

Let’s move on to something devoid of typical moral reasoning:

Lets try: Altering materials on earth

Assumption: The people of the universe remain unchanged

Finally, released from the quagmire of human relationships and into the playground of material!

Imagine building a house from nothing! I can be my own architect, contractor and interior designer! Find a little piece of land and build whatever I want on it? I could build a space ladder. I could dig a superdeep borehole. I could construct a gigantic fortress. Or a labyrinth. Or Yggdrasil, the World Tree! Okay, I’m entertained for several decades.

What about taking one material and turning it into another material? All concrete is now balloons. Poof! Everything blue is now orange. Poof! All cellphones are now Furbys. Poof!

Along that same vein, I could go join a circus in a small part of the world and advertise as an alchemist! Dopey people would pay me to turn their plants or furniture or baby carriages into gold, and even though reasonable people would think I was just another cheaty charlatan, I could just actually turn their stuff into gold! The story of the “real-life alchemist” would be relegated to the back page of some terrible tabloid, but everyone who visited would actually become rich. Hah! Classic.

Or I could create new materials. I could finally bring Flubber to life, or…or…wait. Whoa, it’s actually hard to think of what new materials could do. The creation of new materials is usually a means to an end, but if I could do anything, I could just create the ends automatically. I wouldn’t need to create lots of graphene to build a space ladder, I could just create an awesome space ladder!

So far, I would spend the most time crafting things. People are complicated, but material is easy.

Speaking of time, how would that work?

So, what about Altering the flow of time

Assumption: The Universe follows a linear path from past to future

As I’ve moved through this, I’ve made some assumptions about how time flows. So let’s address that.

Once the teenage master of the universe gave me powers, I really should suspend the state of the universe as my very first order of business. Maybe there’s some cosmic filing system where I can “save” states so I can access them again? This is unimaginative language, but a computer-based system is the best reference point for talking about this.

So the first thing I should do is save a copy of the universe wherein I haven’t used my powers at all yet. That way, if I ever feel inclined at the end of this eternity of infinite play, I could go back to the moment I got my powers, use my powers to cancel my powers and live my life as normal.

But before that! Let’s go back in time!

I’m not much of a historian, but even I would love going back to watch how they actually built the pyramids, or figure out what was going on with all this Jesus stuff, or see if asteroid Theia really hit the earth to create the moon.

Maybe this is just me, but I would also love to trace the origins of words. See when a word was used for the first time. Or I could even find the first word that was ever used, period!

The past is fun, but moving forward? Here’s where our “saved states” come in handy.

It would be all well and good to simply observe, unobtrusively, the past. But if you wanted to interact with anyone, the future you came from would immediately vanish into the aether. Any interaction you had in the past, no matter how small, would change the future. Which could be a whole game unto itself!

You could try changing small (or big) things and see what difference they might make. If I picked an apple from a tree in Massachusetts on March 4th, 1781, would that make any difference today? Would I still exist?

What if I kicked a rock across a field on Pangaea? That wouldn’t make a difference, would it?

What about just freezing time?

Let’s try freezing time without tweaking much physics. Check it out: I freeze time. I blink my eyes. I unfreeze time. The universe explodes. Why? Because if I don’t change basic physical laws, velocity still equals distance over time. If I blink my eyes, the velocity of that movement would be one centimeter divided by zero. Zero. Because I stopped time. So when time moves again, there would have been a physical interaction that created infinite force. Thus, the universe explodes.

Okay, fiddle-faddle, wibble-wibble poof! Now that doesn’t happen. Now I can freeze time, walk around and…well, do what exactly? Look at people frozen in time? This isn’t as much fun as I thought.

Let’s try moving forward in time!

I spend a lot of time imagining what the future might be like. I’d start at my preliminary state in the Denny’s, become invisible, immortal and all that jazz, then speed time up and just watch the world change. Does the Internet of Things actually take off? Will Left Shark become a new cultural icon and run for president? Do we actually create an Artificial Super Intelligence?

This is fun, but it becomes a bit tedious. I could simply create all these things myself. I’m still hardwired to the narrative of humans living on earth. Which makes sense considering I come from Earth, am a human and concern myself with the goings on of other humans.

Can I break out of the human story? What would that look like?

Da dada dada DA DA!

When we return to Journey to the Center of the Zero-Parameter Thought Experiment we’ll explore such things as

– Designed Scenarios

 Life outside Humans

– Laws outside Physics 

– The terrifying “Random Seed Generator!”

– What the hell all this has to do with stories! 

All that and more in Part number 2, coming…later. 

Journey to the Center of the Zero-Parameter Thought Experiment [Part 1]

Getting close to the fire

I live with approximately one thousand paradoxes in my brain. I want to do more, I want to do less. I want everyone to like me, I want no one to know me. I want to be good at music, I want to stay bad at music so I’m not obliged to ever do anything of good musical quality, ever.

But there is this one paradox that defines me. A paradox that trumps the rest: I want to be close to the fire, I want to run away from the fire.

Let me explain.

Symptoms of being close to the fire (in chronological order):

First, there’s awkwardness. You march into situations you know nothing about, not sure what you’re ready for or what will happen. This includes: being in a place where you don’t speak the language, agreeing to do something you don’t know how to do, breaking the rules for a reason that’s apparent to only you, creating any type of art. The fire can get awkward really quick and it’s usually terrible.

Then suddenly, euphoria! This usually happens if you live in the awkwardness long enough to be fulfilled. Don’t ask me how it works, but if you run toward awkward situations, you usually discover something vital. Don’t ask me what. How should I know? The euphoria is the best part of being close to the fire.

After euphoria you get good old depression. That big discovery you made has faded, or you figured out that it wasn’t real (or for us artists, it was “cliche” or “not your best work”) or you just need to do the dishes again. What the hell? I thought this big euphoric moment would mean I wouldn’t ever need to do the dishes again! Oh I do need to do the dishes? Now? Okay…

Then it starts all over again.

Boldly go toward awkwardness, find total euphoria, loose total euphoria. That’s the fire cycle. It’s a total roller coaster of mood swings, existential crises, enlightenment and lots of awkward failure.

I want that. I LOVE that. I’m in theatre because it’s the art form that, to me, emphasizes the roller coaster. You work on a project, it gets awkward and unintelligible, there’s a euphoric breakthrough, then the show closes and you curl up with Netflix and whiskey, feeling like you’re a worthless human being.

(There are plenty of theatre artists, I’m sure, that have figured out how to make work without going through all this. I sure haven’t.)

So…the thing is…there’s this other thing I want too. I want to be far away from the fire. Which looks like:

Having peace of mind. So you need to do the dishes? No big deal. Just feel the warm water, breathe, maybe listen to some amazing music or awesome podcasts. Take a long walk without music, just thinking about, well I don’t know what you think about, but I tend to think about space, robots and trees. Peace of mind is where you can really figure out how to be a good human being. Or not even that, maybe just a human being. It’s nice.

But then there’s the sense of uselessness. I don’t know if you suffer from this same blessing/curse but if I just sit around being at peace with myself, I don’t feel like I’m doing anything. It gets a little cold when you’re away from the fire. The dishes get done, but in the grand course of humanity, that really isn’t enough, right?

So you distract yourself by watching other people who are living close to the fire. People living close to the fire are super interesting! They make art, they try stupid things that fail, their lives are full of drama. From the child cooks competing on TV to the esoteric playwright who produces shows in his living room – I could be entertained my entire life by these people. I could do the dishes, cook my food and watch the people close to the fire.

So there’s the other cycle. Peace of mind, followed by a sense of boredom/uselessness which is cured by art and entertainment. That’s what it’s like away from the fire.

Me? I want both. If I live in one cycle too long, I crave the other. I’ve tried to solve this couple different ways, all of which fail.

I try to live close to the fire, while pretending I’m not. This usually means creating art, but not listening to what other people think about it. I reject critique – positive and negative alike – because critique reminds me that I’m close to the fire! This pretense takes a lot of mental acrobatics and usually ends with me walking away from the fire.

I’ve also tried to live far away from the fire, but pretending I’m warm. This means I start projects, but never finish them. Excitedly email people about setting up meetings, but dreading them when they come. I pretend I’m on a big adventure, when really I just want to do the dishes and listen to Ira Glass.

That’s my ugliest and most wonderful paradox. Running back and forth, getting cold and getting burned, trying to pick up everything I drop along the way.

Getting close to the fire