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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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MADE FOR YOU AND ME 3: hive Being (Stanzas 2018--part 3)
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

MADE FOR YOU AND ME 3: hive Being (Stanzas 2018--part 3)

"Made for You and Me: Hive Being (Stanzas 2018 — Part 3)" continues the serial project of distributed consciousness that the earlier installments established, but this section carries a tonal register distinctly heavier than its predecessors. Where earlier sections moved with the aphoristic agility of a mind equally at home in the comic and the devastating, Part 3 has a higher proportion of entries organized around death, terminal conditions, and the specific grief of having arrived too late — to the father's body, to the dying wise man's bedside, to the moment before suicide became obvious. The hive is still buzzing, still ranging freely across registers, but something in this section has begun to feel the weight of its own accumulation.

The opening entry — "on your childhood bed after decades, the wake underway downstairs" — achieves its effect through spatial and temporal compression. The childhood bed and the adult body returning to it after decades, the wake proceeding below — the entire architecture of mortality, memory, and the body's persistence through time is held in a single prepositional phrase. The wake is downstairs: the dead are being mourned in the social space while the mourner has retreated to the private space of childhood, to the bed that knew the body before the body knew grief. The entry does not say whose wake or whose bed. It does not need to. The situation is total.

"A species for whom explaining is seen as losing, we were always anti-intellectual" — the plural "we" implicates the reader in a cultural self-diagnosis that the entry refuses to soften. Explanation as defeat, as exposure, as the surrender of the rhetorical high ground — this is named as constitutive rather than recent, "always" anti-intellectual rather than newly so. The entry is itself an explanation, which gives it the recursive quality of much of the section's best aphorism: it performs what it diagnoses.

"If no one thinks they have an accent, what else does no one think?" is the section's most compressed epistemological entry, and one of its finest. The accent is the standard example of the invisible norm — the way those who set linguistic standards are unaware of their own particularity, hearing themselves as accentless while hearing deviation in everyone else. The question extrapolates from this single case to an open-ended inventory of equivalent blind spots: what other norms are invisible to those who embody them, what other absences of thought are mistaken for the natural condition of thought itself. The entry asks the question and leaves it open, which is the only honest thing to do.

"Getting him back only to restore your chance to be the one to leave" is the section's most concentrated portrait of intimate bad faith, and it achieves its devastating compression by naming a motivation so true and so rarely admitted that its statement feels like exposure. The entire labor of reconciliation — the negotiation, the forgiveness, the reinstallation of the relationship — is revealed as instrumental: not a desire for reunion but a desire for the power of departure, for the restoration of agency in a situation where being left had stripped it away.

"Your tween daughter comes home from a sleepover / with a new coffee habit, like she is in Sex and the City — / perhaps just the tip of what the other daddy showed her" — the entry moves from the comic to the sinister across a single dash. "Like she is in Sex and the City" is the parent's amused observation of precocious sophistication; "perhaps just the tip of what the other daddy showed her" turns the observation inside out. The idiom "just the tip" carries its sexual register without announcing it. The entry does not accuse; it deploys possibility with a casualness that is its own form of indictment.

"Hypersexual and hyperviolent and tribal; remixing instead of being / the ultimate wellspring; regarding explaining oneself as weakness — / the black American shows us who we truly are, and we cannot stand it" is the section's most formally and politically charged entry, and it demands careful attention. The entry does not make a claim about black Americans as a group in isolation. It makes a claim about the universality of what is being described — hypersexuality, hyperviolence, tribalism, the preference for remix over origination, the equation of explanation with weakness — and identifies black American culture as its most visible and honest expression, while arguing that the broader culture's hostility to it is a function of self-recognition rather than genuine difference. The mirror dynamic the entry invokes is the same one the section names at its close: those who disgust us serve as mirrors, and the disgust is self-directed. The entry is deliberately uncomfortable in its framing, as the poem elsewhere names uncomfortable things directly; its argument is not that these characteristics are racial but that their most unashamed expression in one cultural context makes that expression a diagnostic mirror for the broader culture's own suppressed version of the same tendencies.

"Cancel culture, while it masquerades as self-love, is but the vitriol of our self-hatred / for being cripples hooked on coddling that cripples — and so to stab its heart is to lure / babies into self-love by inviting home varieties of the unsettling for them to overcome" — this is the section's most elaborately constructed single entry, and its argument is three-tiered. Cancel culture presents itself as self-love, as the protection of the vulnerable from harm. The entry identifies it instead as self-hatred projected outward — the self-punishing impulse of people who have become dependent on the coddling that perpetuates their helplessness. And the antidote it proposes is not resistance in the obvious sense but its opposite: inviting the unsettling in, exposing the young to difficulty and discomfort as the only actual path to the self-love that cancel culture claims to provide. The entry performs the argumentative complexity it describes: it does not simply attack, it diagnoses and prescribes.

"If you knew for sure it was God telling you to kill the baby, / your refusal to do it would amount to not understanding / that the being in question — perfect — knows what is best" — the entry enters the territory of Kierkegaard's teleological suspension of the ethical with the same compression it applies to everything else. The Binding of Isaac is here reframed as an epistemological problem: if the being commanding you is perfect, then your moral hesitation is not virtue but a failure to understand the nature of perfection. The entry does not endorse infanticide. It exposes the logical structure of any theology that attributes perfection to its deity while retaining the right to override divine commands on moral grounds — a position it identifies as internally inconsistent.

"Even if lions all of a sudden became peaceful, it would remain wise for finite creatures / like us to stay on guard around them at least in the transition period — profiling them / harder if their most popular music depicts them glorifying themselves as predators" — the analogy is the section's most politically compressed, and its final clause is its argumentative core. The entry does not argue for racial profiling directly. It argues for behavioral profiling — for the use of cultural self-representation as evidence about risk — while using the lion analogy to suggest that this is not prejudice but prudence. The most popular music is the cultural output the community has chosen to amplify; if that output depicts predation as identity, the entry holds that this constitutes relevant evidence for threat assessment regardless of individual variation. The entry is deliberately provocative in its implications and does not insulate itself from the discomfort those implications produce.

"How did liquidating yourself go, / so suddenly, from unimaginable / to the most obvious solution?" is the section's most devastating single entry, and it achieves its effect through the verb "liquidating" — financial, bureaucratic, cold — applied to suicide. The entry does not ask this question of a specific person. It asks it of the phenomenon itself: the way the threshold between unthinkable and obvious can collapse without warning, the way the mind can reorganize itself around a conclusion that would have been incomprehensible a week before. The question implies a witness, someone who watched the reorganization happen or found its aftermath, and who cannot account for the speed of the transition.

"Drawn together by trauma, the boy is down / whenever his father is down — but this day / a rollicking butterfly has drawn him away" — the tercet is the section's most purely lyrical entry, and its final image earns its lightness through everything that precedes it. The boy whose attunement to his father's depression has become its own kind of depression is, on this day, drawn away by a butterfly. The butterfly is not symbolic in any heavy sense. It is a butterfly, rollicking, which is a word that carries its own irresistible energy. The distraction is accidental and total and temporary and sufficient. The entry does not say whether the father notices or what the father feels. It ends with the boy's attention elsewhere, which is enough.

"Parents, mom too, heckling their kids / for reading: 'Look at this pussy-ass nigga — / reading a fuckin' book!'" — the entry names a specific and devastating form of anti-intellectualism: not the passive neglect of reading but its active punishment, the community enforcing its own intellectual suppression through the mechanism of shame. "Mom too" is the entry's most precise detail, insisting on the mother's participation rather than allowing her to be exempted from the dynamic by gender. The entry connects directly to the section's opening claim about explanation as losing: here the culture's equation of intellectual engagement with weakness is being installed in the next generation in real time, by its parents, with the tools of humiliation.

"Deathbed dying tends to come in such doses / that it is easy to persuade yourself, some / moments, that you might just pull through" — this is the section's most compassionate entry about mortality, and it is compassionate precisely because it is accurate. The intermittency of terminal dying — the moments of relative stability that the dying and their witnesses interpret as recovery before the next decline — is rendered without sentimentality but with a recognition of the psychological necessity of that misinterpretation. The persuasion is not delusion but the mind doing what it must to remain present in the room.

"The knowledge — unspoken on all sides — / that the Make-A-Wish teen wants pussy, / not videogames and a trip to Disneyland" — the entry is the section's most darkly comic, and it earns its comedy through the universality of the suppressed knowledge it names. The Make-A-Wish fantasy is a cultural institution built around the idealized desires of ill children: the theme park, the celebrity meeting, the gaming console. The entry identifies the gap between institutional fantasy and actual adolescent desire with the directness that the institution's sentimentality forecloses. The teen's wish is unspeakable within the framework that exists to grant wishes, which is a small but precise portrait of how institutional care systematically misreads the people it serves.

The section closes with two entries that function as a paired coda. "In realizing you are pretty much stuck in the home underclass, / for sanity you open to the beauty of those who disgusted you — / and so too to yourself, since they served as mirrors all along" — this is the section's most explicit statement of the mirror dynamic that underlies so much of its political and social analysis. The opening to beauty in conditions of constraint is not resigned acceptance but a perceptual reorganization: those who disgusted are recognized as reflections, and the disgust as self-directed, which transforms the social landscape and the self simultaneously.

"Making by hand invites, in the meditative clearing it safeguards, / ornamentation: self-amused patterns knifed into the pie crust / and penned deviations from the mono-style of the internet age" — the final entry is the section's most formally generous, and it closes the hive's buzzing on a note of careful, embodied making. The meditative clearing that handwork creates is the space in which ornamentation becomes possible — not the optimized, algorithmic ornamentation of digital production but the self-amused deviation, the pattern knifed into pastry by a hand that is amusing itself, departing from the mono-style not as rebellion but as the natural expression of individual attention given time and a surface to work on. The entry is a small argument for craft as resistance to the homogenizing pressure of networked production, and it lands with a quietness proportional to its confidence.

Formally, Part 3 of the series continues the ethical montage structure of its predecessors while allowing individual entries more breathing room than the densest passages of earlier sections. Several entries extend to three lines and develop genuine argumentative arcs rather than operating purely through compression. This expansion corresponds to the section's tonal weight: the death entries, the suicide entry, the butterfly and the boy — these require a slightly longer beat to register at full depth. The section does not abandon compression; it calibrates it, allowing the most devastating entries the space they need while keeping the hive's distributed intelligence intact.

Meta Description

The third installment of the Hive Being aphorism series: a distributed intelligence ranging across death, anti-intellectualism, intimate bad faith, racial mirrors, terminal dying, and the meditative clearing of handwork — heavier in register than its predecessors, carrying more of the weight of accumulated consciousness.

Keywords

Made for You and Me Hive Being Part 3, aphorism poetry, distributed consciousness, ethical montage, cancel culture critique, anti-intellectualism, terminal dying poetry, suicide threshold, Make-A-Wish satire, mirror dynamic, handwork and craft, racial mirror, Kierkegaard binding of isaac, contemporary American poetry, close reading, Hypocorism

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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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