to Hive being
welcome
What is Hive Being, and Why the Name?
You have likely heard talk of a hive mind, where one global mind finds more or less figurative expression in various local minds. Such talk is common enough in nature documentaries, especially ones concerning ants or bees, and in sci-fi programs. Take that notion, at least a loose version of it, and broaden its scope. That will be a decent first step in understanding the title I have chosen both for my Blog and for the first five-volume installment of my magnum opus Made For You and Me, a fragmentary collection of minimalist stanzas from 2016 to 2020.
In alignment with Spinoza (the 17th Century Rationalist to whom I devoted my doctoral studies), I view reality in its totality as a grand hive Being: all entities are but pulsating manifestations of the buckstopping fount of everything, an ultimate being we might call “God” or “Nature” (so long as, out of respect for the capital “G” and the capital “N,” we limit it neither to some anthropomorphic cloud father hurling lightning bolts nor to mere wilderness untouched by human smog). According to the hive-Being view (where reality is one lone superorganism, a monistic—and we might even say unividualist—conception I defend in both my creative and academic capacities), each non-foundational being (each being, that is, whose essence does not involve existence) is an utterly necessitated expression or eruption or exudation of this eternal source—each is, perhaps better put, a mode or manner of being, and so a focal point through which is disclosed, what classical theists sometimes call “being itself” (ipsum esse subsistens): the realness of the real, the being of whatever may be, the sheer activity of being, the very isness of whatever is. This Blog, which duplicates my Substack, throbs as but one among many literary unfurlings of this self-necessitated foundation, this supreme wellspring, of which we—like black holes and broken beliefs, like fractal ferns and flickering flames—are the inevitable stylings.
My Journey
I am an academic who found himself pressured into early retirement by the rising tides of cancel culture. The illiberal scourge of censoring, silencing, and shaming—although always with us throughout our evolution—reached a local peak around 2021. That was the turbulent year my creative pursuits, which the old left once encouraged as a healthy outlet for the stresses of a childhood steeped in poverty and illiteracy, drew the ire of the new safe-space left. A small cadre of self-proclaimed victims and their allies, several of whom continue to berate me years later under pseudonyms as see through as their sexual infatuation, sought to erase me and my heterodoxy. They found support from a wannabe-woke dean, covered in the grand inquisitor robes of our decadent modernity (full-body tattoos) and just itching to signal his commitment to protecting “vulnerable populations” from triggering material (even if just, as it was in my case, off-duty poems “unbecoming for someone calling himself a teacher”). Although I eventually won my due-process case with the help of The Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression, I slunk away from a college that turned its back on protecting freedom of expression and from an institution increasingly intolerant of intellectual diversity.
The wrecking ball to my too-comfy office in the windowless ivory tower came with a silver lining. From the ashes of my professional aspirations rose a phoenix of increased freedom to fulfill the literary calling I have pursued for decades. Reputation concerns never stopped me, even within academia’s sterile halls of conformity. Indeed, my unapologetic defiance, which has long baffled friends and family, no doubt chummed even safe waters—almost as if I were asking for it all along—until the cancel shiver grew too frenzied to hold back its blind thrashings. But now, now I piston the most forbidden territories of human thought with no longer even a twinge of conscience. The newfound freedom means extra time to hone my craft. When not assisting special-needs communities (a day job far more rewarding than freeway-flyer drudgeries), I pursue my literary mission with Dionysian fervor.
Call for Co-Conspirators
This space, my digital sanctuary, showcases the fruits of my mission. Think of my posts, even those linking to my publications, as works in progress. I want your input, unflinching brutality included. Each post begins with an invitation to action: “Let’s workshop this [draft about x, y, z].” Your contributions, whether through public comments or my contact page, help hammer scraps of ore into polished blades fit for magazine publication.
Your input is valuable, even if you are neither a writer nor a reader of literature—twin disciplines dying by the cyber nanosecond. Sometimes—even if at the risk of uttering banalities—an outsider’s fresh vantage can pierce the veils of convention to reveal what insiders miss. It often takes an outsider to make us even think to question our ingrained presuppositions and attitudes. I stand by the hygienic value of contagion. That is one reason I advocate so strongly for intellectual diversity and freedom of expression. And that is also one reason I was so harrowed by the anti-diversity swell of cancel culture in academia (an institution that should be the utmost caretaker of such values)—harrowed especially insofar as that swell masqueraded under the gaslighting guise of “diversity”).
You will witness the breathing evolution of my writings over time. To track these changes, I label each revision by round: “ROUND 2,” ROUND 3,” and so forth. Each piece undergoes continuous refinement based on your feedback and my own revisitations. Sometimes changes will mar the work. That is the risk of creative tinkering as a finite creature. I hope you will alert me to missteps. After many semesters of university writing workshops, one rule has impressed itself upon me: when someone senses a flaw, something almost always needs to change—even if, yes, the proposed solution misses the mark (which often it does). From a quick look into the archives, accessible here, you can see how much I have benefited from your feedback so far.
My Hope
Sharing drafts can be daunting. But showing you the ravaged and unperfumed real deal unfiltered by makeup (stuttering starts and falsities, awkward line breaks and clumsy word choices, grammatical errors and misspellings)—that not only makes my work more relatable, but helps me refine things through your input. I hope the unfiltered look at the raw process of fumbling, rather than just the polished product, also helps other writers develop their craft. Imperfect works often instruct more than perfect ones: whereas the perfect ones tend to have a grace by which they slip inside us without activating our scrutiny, the imperfect ones—especially the near perfect ones—show us glaringly what not to do.
People laugh at me, seeing—in my tilting at the windmills of literary excellence—a Don Quixote clunking around in Arthurian armor in a post-knight era. I am not naïve. I am well aware of the diminishing ability to read, let alone well: slowly and deeply, with gratitude. I am also aware that my style, which often nests subpoints within larger points, never waters down virtuosity for the sake of mass appeal. I watch readers stumble over my sentences, unable to unlock even just the music of the envelope let alone the semantic meat within, which—given my tendency to flashlight through the darker facets of human nature (the addicts, the miscreants, the abusers among us)—only adds an additional alienating layer of difficulty). Beholding these depressive scenes of even supportive family members getting bucked off my syntactic bronco makes me feel like a dinosaur who should get a hint and, if not succumb to the brain rot of skibidi-toilet speak, just hang himself already. Even though the decline in linguistic background and grammatical voltage makes my compositions seem quixotic in a world binging Netflix and TikTok, I persist—raging against the dying of the light—by some internal compulsion to celebrate the richness of language and thought.
My hope is that, despite social media’s unparalleled power to farm our attention, people never forget the unique power of writing. Beyond unveiling hypocrisy, teasing out complex implications, and detailing the commonalities between even the most alien phenomena, writing offers something we need today—trapped in agoraphobic cyber bubbles only thickened by the Lyme dangers of forests and the COVID dangers of cities—perhaps more than ever. Granting us rich access to the first-person perspectives of others (to how things feel to them), writing serves as one of humanity’s best tools for combating loneliness. It allows us to linger, broadly and deeply and at high resolution, within the inner lives of others in a way that other arts can only suggest.
What to Expect
My work spans a broad spectrum: from metaphysical discourses on free will and determinism and the ontology of holes to the ephemera of western culture (whether the childhood impacts of the hypersexual mono-image of black woman as squirting twerkers or Terrence Howard’s sham revolution of mathematics). Some tight and minimal, others free-flowing sprawls; some heady and abstract, others emotional and imagistic—my inkwell musings, which often blend scholarly rigor with a dark humor from both high and low culture, aim to capture the visceral intensity of our personal and social and ultimately existential predicaments.
By no means can I deny that drug abuse, sexual assault, and the tales of the broken and the damned loom large in the tag cloud of my work. My writing will never be a paradise of easy truths and comforting lies. It will challenge you, provoke you, and at times even repulse you. I offer no apologies for the monsters I unleash. They are as much a part of us, at long root scared rodent mammals scurrying in the shadows of dinosaurs, as our noblest aspirations.
But make no mistake. It is not all downer darkness. The archives are my receipts. You will find pieces exploring the pursuit of authenticity in a media-saturated world, the search for meaning in an indifferent cosmos, and the celebration of beauty in both the sublime and the profane. I locate much of my inspiration, in fact, in novelists like Dostoevsky and poets like Ted Kooser—writers unafraid to pursue moral agendas or risk Hallmark sentimentality in an age that often sneers at sincerity.
Be they satirical dissections of modern social dynamics or poignant poems about addiction or academic articles on moral responsibility, my goal is to provoke thought, evoke emotion, and foster meaningful dialogue. Fear has not and will not stop me from challenging humanity’s fundamental taboos (like bestiality and cannibalism) or self-reflecting into the dark chaos of the subconscious, even if that means exposing the Jungian shadows—the inner Goebbels—lurking within us all!
Expect posts each day, no day missed. Donations are welcome, but I impose no paywall: it feels wrong to charge for art, especially given our date with obliteration. Feel free to explore what amounts to, at the time of writing this, close to a thousand pieces of poetry and prose here. That should give you a sense of what awaits.
Join me—specula holstered—on this literary odyssey into the public and private nooks of the hive Being. Let us navigate the labyrinth of creation together, confronting our demons and even slaying our darlings if we must. Let us dance on the razor’s edge between the sublime and the profane in pursuit of an elusive literary perfection never to be confused—as it has been confused in our declining civilization—with the pursuit of popularity or likeability over truth.
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Posts
Pushups on Water (Round 2)
"Pushups on Water" is a satirical poem that critiques the exaggerated and often mythical reverence surrounding popular figures, particularly martial arts legends, in contemporary culture. The poem functions as a commentary on the amplification of prowess into absurdity and the potential for hagiography to distort reality over time.
The title, "Pushups on Water," immediately sets a tone of hyperbole and impossibility. It conjures an image of a feat that defies physical laws, signaling the poem's engagement with exaggerated abilities.
The poem proceeds by listing several increasingly outlandish claims attributed to martial arts icon Bruce Lee: "Bruce Lee could do / a layaway one-inch poke / where you die / a hundred steps later / or midair dash too fast / for film." These claims, though rooted in actual martial arts lore (like the one-inch punch), are presented in an exaggerated, almost folkloric manner. The phrase "layaway one-inch poke" adds a touch of absurd domesticity to the deadly force, while "midair dash too fast / for film" pushes the ability beyond verifiable reality, into the realm of pure myth. The parenthetical "or, still absurd, / even just tap out / Royce Gracie" introduces a contemporary martial arts figure, implicitly mocking the tendency to project Lee's abilities onto hypothetical modern-day victories, even against a legend of a different era and discipline. The poem establishes that "so many today swear" these impossible feats are true, highlighting a collective credulity.
The poem's central question, "what / immaculate conceptions / might we halo him with / after centuries?", delivers its core satirical punch. The phrase "immaculate conceptions" is a religious term, here used sacrilegiously to imply that over time, legendary figures are not just admired but deified, imbued with divine or supernatural qualities born of unquestioning belief. The poem suggests that if such absurd claims are already accepted after a relatively short period, the future holds even greater, more fantastical glorifications. It critiques the human tendency to mythologize, creating a hagiographic distance that replaces verifiable reality with fantastical narratives, driven by admiration that borders on uncritical reverence.
Satire, Bruce Lee, martial arts, legend, myth-making, hagiography, hyperbole, cultural critique, hero worship, exaggeration, popular culture, critical thinking, deification, contemporary poetry.
Mary’s Hairbrush Handle*
“Mary’s Hairbrush Handle” is a volatile, taboo-shredding prose-poem that uses the most iconic consent story in the Christian canon — the Annunciation — to probe the hypocrisy and blind spots in how we treat sexual maturity today. Its core provocation is simple yet disorienting: if we recoil in moral outrage at the idea that a twelve-year-old Mary could have given real consent — to her betrothal to Joseph, let alone to becoming the literal “slave” (doulos) of an omnipotent God — then we must also reckon with what that standard implies about our own cultural assumptions that a modern teenager, or even a young adult, is automatically mature enough to handle complex, power-laden sexual dynamics.
The poem’s unsettling power comes from its fusion of biblical philology (“doulos,” not servant but owned chattel) with kink discourse (“DDLG,” “consensual non-consent”). By forcing the reader to look directly at the raw power asymmetry — a powerless young girl submitting to an all-powerful, all-knowing being — it exposes how fragile the idea of “informed consent” can be when the imbalance is that extreme. The piece plays with the reader’s discomfort: is this a disturbing metaphor for divine devotion, or an unspoken spiritual erotica hidden in plain sight? Either way, it shows how both atheists and apologists circle the same unease, yet rarely follow its logic to the real-world parallel.
The poem’s savage humor is its weapon. In one breath it imagines Luke, the Gospel writer, “getting a little plethysmograph-throbbing titillation spelling out the DDLG-BDSM terms of Mary’s relationship with God.” In the next, it ridicules how the pious hand-wave away the moral problem: if God is all-good, then any worry about exploitation must, by definition, be wrong — “any evidence our lying eyes ever thought we received… would simply have to be recategorized as a good thing.” This dark parody of theodicy sets up the bigger point: if we can’t trust a girl to freely consent to her entire self becoming a divine womb, how can we so blithely assume that modern young people, immersed in a hyper-sexualized, infantilizing culture, are ready to navigate complex sexual relationships?
The piece’s social commentary bites hardest when it contrasts Mary’s ancient context with today’s extended adolescence. The text spares no illusions about life in first-century Galilee: “grinding grain, pulling buckets of well water, tending livestock, mending clothes” — backbreaking domestic labor that forced girls into real, survival-driven adulthood before they ever menstruated. A twelve-year-old in that world, the poem argues, bore the kind of physical, emotional, and intellectual responsibilities that most 25-year-olds in developed nations today are only beginning to glimpse — if they ever do at all.
Against this, the poem lays out the modern bubble: constant digital dopamine, overprotective “snowplowing” parents, the flattening effects of a culture that encourages perpetual self-regard and excuses for stunted growth. It lampoons the way contemporary “infancy bubbles” keep young people in a perpetual state of emotional immaturity, coddled from real-world pushback or self-denial. As the poem acidly observes, “the merest bit of boredom or delay in gratification feels… like the end of the world.” The argument is not that we should lower the bar for what counts as sexual maturity — but rather that if we accept the logic that Mary could not have meaningfully consented at twelve, we must question whether many legal adults today, in a culture that delays maturity, truly meet that threshold either.
In the end, “Mary’s Hairbrush Handle” flips a familiar polemic inside out. It doesn’t excuse child marriage or divine impregnation; it doesn’t wink at the power imbalance as something to be fetishized in real life. Instead, it asks: if we find the Annunciation intolerable because a girl that young could never rationally grasp what she was agreeing to, then why do we assume a modern eighteen-year-old — often coddled, distracted, lacking self-reliance — automatically can? The poem’s final implication is radical but logically consistent: perhaps a society serious about meaningful consent should be more willing to question whether the legal age of consent — and the broader markers of adulthood — are set far too low for the actual maturity we see in practice.
Beneath the wild imagery, the pornographic kink comparisons, and the irreverent scriptural mockery lies an uncomfortably moral question: if real consent requires true agency, wisdom, and self-sufficiency, the bar should be higher than the easy lines we draw on paper — even if that means that today’s “adults” might not qualify so quickly.
transgressive poetry, age of consent, Mary, doulos, Annunciation, power asymmetry, informed consent, coming-of-age, cultural infantilization, kink discourse, DDLG, consensual non-consent, biblical critique, religious satire, theodicy, sexual ethics, maturity threshold, youth culture, extended adolescence.
Inner Beauty
"Inner Beauty" is a poignant and sharply critical poem that delves into the subtle yet profound cruelty of perceived pity and the damaging insinuation of intellectual deficiency. The poem functions as a commentary on the subjective nature of beauty, social awkwardness, and the cutting impact of perceived condescension.
The title, "Inner Beauty," immediately establishes an ironic tension with the poem's content. While the phrase typically refers to the value of character over physical appearance, the poem proceeds to explore how physical perceived flaws can lead to judgments that undermine a person's inner worth and intellect.
The poem begins by detailing a specific social interaction: "Moist-brow refusal to stare / burned crueler than heckling ogles / (even spitball thwacks)." The "moist-brow refusal to stare" suggests a deliberate, perhaps uncomfortable, avoidance of direct eye contact, possibly accompanied by an expression of pity or discomfort. The poem immediately establishes that this seemingly benign act of avoidance is perceived as more painful than overt bullying like "heckling ogles" or "spitball thwacks." This highlights the insidious nature of subtle social cues, which can inflict deeper wounds than direct aggression. The use of "burned crueler" underscores the emotional devastation caused by this specific form of non-engagement.
The poem then articulates the reason for this heightened pain: "because the insinuation, / a brazen backhand to all those hours / hidden in library stacks, / was that—as if only retards / sprouted moles—she was too dense / to spot strained mercy." The "insinuation" is the core of the poem's critique. It is described as a "brazen backhand" to the subject's intellectual efforts, represented by "all those hours / hidden in library stacks." This directly links the social snub to an undermining of her intellect. The poem reveals the specific, cruel implication: that her perceived physical flaw ("moles" are implied as the source of the "refusal to stare") is linked to intellectual disability ("as if only retards / sprouted moles"). The most painful sting is the idea that "she was too dense / to spot strained mercy." This means she is not only judged for her appearance but also deemed too unintelligent to recognize the pity being extended to her. The poem thus exposes a profound level of social cruelty, where physical perceived imperfections lead to an assumption of intellectual inferiority, and even a show of "mercy" is delivered with a dismissive arrogance that further demeans the recipient.
social critique, inner beauty, perception, cruelty, pity, intellect, appearance, social dynamics, bullying, insinuation, emotional pain, self-worth, condescension, stigma, intellectualism, judgment.
Chihuahua
"Chihuahua" is a highly polemical and derogatory poem that expresses profound anxiety and contempt regarding perceived shifts in masculinity within contemporary Western society. The poem functions as a critique of evolving gender norms and identity politics, specifically targeting a perceived feminization and weakening of white men.
The title, "Chihuahua," immediately functions as a pejorative metaphor. Chihuahuas are often associated with smallness, perceived weakness, and being overly pampered or "cute," which directly aligns with the poem's critique of contemporary masculinity. This sets a tone of disdain and mockery.
The poem begins by listing what it perceives as the insidious influences contributing to this perceived decline: "Microplastics and soy, / the expanding creep of what / masculine traits count as toxic—". "Microplastics and soy" are often cited in certain online subcultures as environmental factors believed to contribute to feminization or reduced male vigor, even if scientifically unfounded. "The expanding creep of what / masculine traits count as toxic" directly attacks the re-evaluation of traditional masculine attributes, suggesting that this redefinition is an overreach that demonizes natural male characteristics.
The poem then accelerates its condemnation, projecting a bleak future: "soon there will be, especially / among self-cucking whites, / enough halfling girlie-men". The phrase "self-cucking whites" is a highly offensive and loaded term, implying a voluntary emasculation and submission, specifically within the white male demographic. "Halfling girlie-men" is a deeply demeaning and dehumanizing descriptor, painting a picture of men who are perceived as weak, effeminate, and diminished. The poem suggests this demographic is growing and is particularly prevalent among white men, linking it to self-inflicted ideological or cultural choices.
The final lines introduce a perverse twist of "respect": "deserving, no matter what / bred them, respect / only the inhumane would withhold." This is deeply ironic. The poem itself has just subjected these "halfling girlie-men" to intense ridicule and dehumanization. The concluding statement, framed as a conditional assertion about withholding respect, subtly flips the condemnation. It implies that these men, despite being anathema to the poem's vision of masculinity, are still human enough to warrant a basic level of respect, withholding which would be "inhumane." However, this is uttered within a context of profound disdain for their existence, creating a complex and unsettling satirical paradox. The poem's "respect" is offered with a cynical, almost disgusted, concession, underlining the poem's core argument that such men represent a degenerate form of masculinity.
masculinity, gender norms, identity politics, social critique, polemic, dehumanization, white male, feminization, satire, contemporary culture, toxicity, emasculation, pejorative, irony.
Pushups on Water
"Pushups on Water" is a satirical poem that critiques the exaggerated and often mythical reverence surrounding popular figures, particularly martial arts legends, in contemporary culture. The poem functions as a commentary on the amplification of prowess into absurdity and the potential for hagiography to distort reality over time.
The title, "Pushups on Water," immediately sets a tone of hyperbole and impossibility. It conjures an image of a feat that defies physical laws, signaling the poem's engagement with exaggerated abilities.
The poem proceeds by listing several increasingly outlandish claims attributed to martial arts icon Bruce Lee: "Bruce Lee could do / a layaway one-inch poke / where you die / a hundred steps later / or midair dash too fast / for film." These claims, though rooted in actual martial arts lore (like the one-inch punch), are presented in an exaggerated, almost folkloric manner. The phrase "layaway one-inch poke" adds a touch of absurd domesticity to the deadly force, while "midair dash too fast / for film" pushes the ability beyond verifiable reality, into the realm of pure myth. The parenthetical "or, still absurd, / even just tap out / Royce Gracie" introduces a contemporary martial arts figure, implicitly mocking the tendency to project Lee's abilities onto hypothetical modern-day victories, even against a legend of a different era and discipline. The poem establishes that "so many today swear" these impossible feats are true, highlighting a collective credulity.
The poem's central question, "what / immaculate conceptions / might we halo him with / after centuries?", delivers its core satirical punch. The phrase "immaculate conceptions" is a religious term, here used sacrilegiously to imply that over time, legendary figures are not just admired but deified, imbued with divine or supernatural qualities born of unquestioning belief. The poem suggests that if such absurd claims are already accepted after a relatively short period, the future holds even greater, more fantastical glorifications. It critiques the human tendency to mythologize, creating a hagiographic distance that replaces verifiable reality with fantastical narratives, driven by admiration that borders on uncritical reverence.
Satire, Bruce Lee, martial arts, legend, myth-making, hagiography, hyperbole, cultural critique, hero worship, exaggeration, popular culture, critical thinking, deification, contemporary poetry.
Jordan
“Jordan" is a critical and incisive examination of Jordan Peterson's evasive tendencies when faced with direct questions about the literal truth of Biblical narratives. The piece explores the tension between Peterson's stated commitment to truth and his strategic deflection of inquiries that touch upon the historical or biological veracity of religious events, such as the immaculate conception or resurrection of Christ. By analyzing his rhetorical strategies and the implications of his avoidance, the text critiques both the intellectual and interpersonal ramifications of his approach.
The work begins by highlighting the frustration caused by Peterson's refusal to answer straightforward questions about Biblical stories. His methods of evasion, including cloaking himself in feigned incomprehension and redirecting the conversation to symbolic interpretations, are dissected as mechanisms that deflect inquiry rather than address it. These tactics, the text argues, not only fail to engage with the questions in good faith but also exacerbate the very materialist mindset Peterson ostensibly seeks to transcend. By refusing to meet his interlocutors at their level of understanding, he inadvertently elevates the banal aspects of these questions to central importance, turning them into focal points of frustration rather than stepping stones to deeper insight.
The text delves into the psychological and pedagogical dimensions of Peterson's approach. On one hand, his deflections can be interpreted as a protective mechanism against what he perceives as reductive materialism—a worldview that he sees as antithetical to the transformative power of mythological narratives. On the other hand, his refusal to engage directly, even when interlocutors clarify their intentions and frame their questions in non-confrontational terms, suggests a deeper defensiveness that undermines his credibility as a truth-seeker. The piece suggests that this defensiveness may stem from an unwillingness to concede that answering such questions need not diminish the symbolic and psychological depth of these narratives.
Through a series of hypothetical dialogues, the text illustrates how Peterson's evasions alienate genuine inquirers and squander opportunities for meaningful dialogue. The author argues that answering literal questions, far from reducing the richness of Biblical stories, can serve as a bridge to the more profound insights Peterson seeks to highlight. By refusing to acknowledge this, Peterson not only frustrates his audience but also betrays the very principles of intellectual honesty and engagement that he claims to champion.
The work also touches upon the broader cultural and philosophical stakes of Peterson's approach. His resistance to direct answers reflects a deeper tension in contemporary discourse: the struggle to balance the metaphysical and symbolic dimensions of religious narratives with the empirical demands of modern skepticism. The text critiques Peterson's failure to navigate this tension effectively, suggesting that his evasions ultimately reinforce the materialist perspective he opposes by making him appear disingenuous.
In its closing analysis, the piece offers a pragmatic critique of Peterson's strategy. By refusing to address superficial questions as a prelude to exploring deeper truths, Peterson undermines his own mission to guide people toward a richer understanding of Biblical narratives. The text calls for a more honest and transparent engagement with such questions, arguing that this would not only build trust with his audience but also strengthen his case for the enduring relevance of these stories.
Jordan Peterson, Biblical narratives, rhetorical evasion, symbolic truth, materialism, intellectual honesty, religious narratives, literal vs. symbolic, philosophical discourse, cultural critique.
"Stoon of Sikernesse" in Troilus and Criseyde
In "‘Stoon of Sikernesse’" in Troilus and Criseyde,” the poem reflects on Chaucer's nuanced portrayal of earthly love and the inherent fragility of human attachment. The titular “Stoon of Sikernesse” refers to an imagined anchor of certainty and fidelity, yet in the poem, love appears as a paradox: an all-consuming, even maddening force that is simultaneously transient and unreliable. This reference aligns with the idea in Troilus and Criseyde of love as an overwhelming force, compelling Troilus to pursue Criseyde despite the risks to his heart and sense of self. The imagery here underscores the irrational, almost tragic, insistence on pursuing what is fleeting—a lover who, by nature, is changeable, mortal, and “prone to sicken and die.”
The poem juxtaposes this transient love with loftier, more timeless causes. The notion of “causes that outspan us” points to ideals like honor, duty, or divine pursuits—endeavors that one might expect to be worthier of devotion than an ephemeral romance. However, as the speaker notes, even these elevated causes are subject to the ravages of time and decay. This duality embodies Chaucer's medieval worldview, wherein the temporary nature of earthly pursuits is seen as a flaw or a limitation, one that drives the allure of “anti-samsara heaven,” a conceptual escape from the cycle of worldly suffering and decay.
The reference to “anti-samsara heaven” hints at a longing for spiritual transcendence as an antidote to the sorrows of worldly attachments, mirroring the medieval Christian ethos of striving for heavenly salvation as a release from the suffering and impermanence of earthly life. Just as Chaucer uses Troilus’s plight to explore the folly of seeking permanence in the impermanent, this piece evokes the instability of even the most intense, seemingly significant attachments and goals in human life. Ultimately, the poem resonates with Chaucer’s insight that all earthly pursuits, no matter how noble or profound, are vulnerable to change and loss, prompting a yearning for something beyond the samsaric cycle of attachment and suffering.
Chaucer, Troilus and Criseyde, earthly love, impermanence, samsara, spiritual transcendence, medieval worldview, mortality, attachment, fleeting devotion
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FAQ
Don’t let anyone tell you that real life is lacking in poetic interest. This is exactly what the poet is for: he has the mind and the imagination to find something of interest in everyday things. Real life supplies the motifs, the points that need to be said—the actual heart of the matter; but it is the poet’s job to fashion it all into a beautiful, animated whole. You are familiar with Fürnstein, the so-called “nature poet”? He has written a poem about growing hops, and you couldn’t imagine anything nicer. I have now asked him to write some poems celebrating the work of skilled artisans, in particular weavers, and I am quite sure he will succeed; he has lived among such people from an early age, he knows the subject inside out, and will be in full command of his material. That is the advantage of small works: you need only choose subjects that you know and have at your command. With a longer poetic work, however, this is not possible. There is no way around it: all the different threads that tie the whole thing together, and are woven into the design, have to be shown in accurate detail. Young people only have a one-sided view of things, whereas a longer work requires a multiplicity of viewpoints—and that’s where they come unstuck.—Goethe (Conversations with Eckermann)
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have appeared last night—
all those met along the way?


"An Introduction to Chaos Magic(k)" is a character study of extraordinary density that operates simultaneously as social criticism, psychological portrait, spiritual anatomy, and elegy for a generation caught between the wreckage of postmodernity and the human need for enchantment that postmodernity cannot satisfy. Its unnamed protagonist — the brujita, the cyber witch, the self-styled metaverse malvada — is rendered with a specificity that refuses both the condescending dismissal the author's note acknowledges as a temptation and the uncritical celebration that her own self-mythology demands. The piece holds her in the space between these responses, which is where the most honest literary attention lives.
The mirror is the piece's governing formal and philosophical structure, announced in the recurring lead sentences and sustained throughout as both literal object and conceptual frame. The floor mirror the brujita leans toward, the phone selfie, the floor monitor displaying her avatar, the Tumblr manifestation board, the diary, the SpongeBob hat as relic of reflected childhood — everything in her environment functions as a surface in which she attempts to find a stable self and finds instead proliferating versions, none quite coinciding with the original. "Her reflection, close to touching the original, pulses for her like psilocybin" is the piece's most compressed statement of this condition: the reflection approaches but never achieves coincidence with what it reflects, and the gap between them — that millimeter of irreducible distance — is where the brujita lives. Chaos magic, as the piece understands it, is the attempt to close this gap by force of will — to make the reflection become the original through sufficient intensity of self-declaration.
The piece's most significant formal innovation is its deployment of the alternative-world counterpart. The Hagatess comparison is not merely a sociological contrast between urban digital witchcraft and rural embodied witchcraft, though it is that too. It is a philosophical argument about the relationship between metaphor and materiality. The Maine witch's hedge-crossing is literal before it is metaphorical; the brujita's hedge-crossing is metaphorical before it is — possibly, aspirationally — literal. "To be a custodian of hedges is to be a custodian of in-between spaces" is the piece's most generous formulation of what the brujita is genuinely doing, even within and beneath the curation and the shitposting and the manifesting: she is genuinely inhabiting thresholds, genuinely maintaining the border between meat and pixel, genuinely finding in code a practice that is continuous with the older practice of hedge-witchery even as it is entirely discontinuous from it in every material particular. The piece's intelligence is in granting this continuity without pretending the discontinuity doesn't cost something real.
The rapper tape of self-curation that surrounds the brujita — the IG bio, the CashApp handle, the Depop page, the Redbubble shop, the Tumblr manifestation board, the Only Fans, the Twitch stream, the avatar in Afro-Solarpunk GTA — is not rendered as mere vanity but as a genuine, if displaced, spiritual practice. The piece understands curation as the secular form of the same impulse that fills the brujita's dream satchel with garnet and mugwort: the attempt to shape the environment of the self, to arrange the materials of existence into a configuration that will attract what is desired and repel what is feared. That the materials are now Temu neon lichen and Etsy nymph stickers rather than dried hinojo and foraged knotweed is a difference of platform, not of fundamental human activity. The piece does not excuse the shallowness this sometimes produces. It locates the shallowness within a recognizable human hunger.
The rape sequence — rendered in the staccato blackout structure of traumatic memory, each line a flash cut to black — is the piece's formal and emotional center of gravity, and its placement within the longer narrative arc is precise. The brujita's chaos magic, her manifestation practice, her radical self-sovereignty declarations ("I am the programmer. My decisions, my style, / come from me, not from anything beyond me!") are all, the piece suggests, organized in significant part around this event and its aftermath — the attempt to become the author of a self whose authorship was violated. The diary entry's culminating declaration — "Death, rape, war, divorce, dead-beat dads — / I'm the one who lets them be real or not!" — is simultaneously the piece's most delusional and most sympathetic moment: delusional because the God Mode it claims is unavailable to any human being, sympathetic because the need for it is completely legible given what the preceding flashback sequence has shown. Chaos magic, in this reading, is not primarily superstition but a specific psychological response to the experience of having had one's reality determined by someone else's will. The magic is the attempt to reclaim the position of reality's author.
The mother's whiteness and the father's Blackness organize the brujita's identity in ways the piece renders with careful indirection. The mother — "a true queen but whose whiteness, having grown beyond just 1990s 'uncool' and into 2020s 'problematic,' renders such regality unseen" — is present, capable, genuinely loving, and culturally unmarketable in the brujita's ideological environment. The father — "a deadbeat 'King' who gets off on making store clerks stretch to gather his loosie quarters, bops down the block one cop strangle away from becoming, until at least Disney fashion changes, a city-center statue" — is absent, performatively dignified, and culturally hypervaluable in that same environment. The "$blaxicanbruja" handle navigates this inheritance by claiming the Black and the Mexican and letting the white remain implicit and unacknowledged — a dynamic the piece notes with the quiet observation that she "seemingly identify as part Mexican" while the subtle implication is that she is denying her whiteness. Identity here is not simply chosen but strategically curated, assembled from the culturally available materials in ways that maximize belonging and minimize the liability of the unmarketable.
The anime subreddit sequence is among the piece's most formally brilliant passages — the posts reproduced in their actual idiom, their casual nihilism and identity-grievance and erotic longing forming a kind of found poetry of the platform's affective register. "Shinji Ikari is LITERALLY ME. useless bisexual disasters ✅ daddy issues FOR DAYS ✅ depression naps 24/7 ✅" is simultaneously self-aware and self-regarding, genuinely identifying with a character's psychological complexity and reducing that complexity to an identity checklist. The subreddit is the brujita's social mirror — a space where her specific configuration of pain and humor and political feeling finds community — and the piece renders it without contempt while making visible exactly how the platform's idiom shapes what can be felt and said within it.
The author's note is the piece's most unusual formal element, and its inclusion is a significant artistic decision. The author appears in his own text to describe the process of coming to see the character's humanity — moving from the temptation to dismiss her to the recognition of her innocence, her hard work, her dreams, her potential. The Sagan quotations frame this arc: first the critique (the slide into superstition and darkness), then the corrective (the temperance of criticism with kindness toward those whose culture has not given them all the tools they need). The note does not resolve the tension between these positions; it names it as the piece's governing moral challenge, which is also the reader's. We are invited to hold simultaneously the genuine harm of the brujita's worldview — its solipsism, its victimhood economics, its displacement of real understanding with magical substitutes — and the genuine human being constructing that worldview from the available materials of a specific time, place, and wound. The Hitler quotation is the note's most provocative element, placed alongside the Sagan quotation to suggest that the anti-rational turn has a history that predates Gen Z and has produced consequences far worse than any one young woman's crystal collection.
The diary entry that closes the piece is its most formally distinctive element — the shift to verse within the prose, the "bucking motions of erotic greed" of the handwriting enacted in the erratic spacing and pressure of the lines. "Let my delusions be scarecrows. Let them frighten / any so-called 'reality' seeking to devour my crop: ME." is the brujita at her most genuinely poetic — the image precise, the logic coherent within its own terms, the self-protective function of magical thinking rendered not as pathology but as strategy. The final declaration — "I'm the one who lets them be real or not!" — arrives as both triumph and tragedy: the God Mode claimed, the cost of claiming it left for the reader to feel.
What "An Introduction to Chaos Magic(k)" achieves is a portrait of a specific contemporary formation of the human spirit — wounded, creative, politically confused, genuinely searching, embedded in platforms that shape what can be desired and how desire can be expressed, reaching for enchantment in a world that has systematically dismantled the older structures through which enchantment was transmitted and received, and constructing from the available digital materials something that is simultaneously less and more than what it replaces. The piece does not conclude that the brujita is lost. It concludes that she is navigating, as best she can with what she has, the same territory that humans have always navigated: the gap between the self they are and the self they need to become, with whatever tools their culture and their wound have left them.
Meta Description
A novelistic character study of a young mixed-race Los Angeles woman navigating chaos magic, digital curation, racial identity, sexual trauma, and the human hunger for enchantment in a disenchanted world — rendered through mirrors literal and figurative, the alternative-world counterpart of a Maine hedge witch, a rape sequence in blackout staccato, and a diary entry that culminates in the God Mode declaration of a psyche determined to author its own reality against everything that has authored her instead.
Keywords
An Introduction to Chaos Magic, chaos magic poetry, brujita, blaxican witch, digital witchcraft, manifestation culture, Gen Z identity, racial identity curation, trauma and magical thinking, mirror as form, hedge witch comparison, anime subreddit, Hagatess, alternative world counterpart, rape and self-sovereignty, Carl Sagan Demon-Haunted World, author's note as form, diary as verse, God Mode declaration, contemporary American prose poem, character study, superstition and postmodernity, identity and platform, Los Angeles witch