shining the spotlight on the background

Of all the possible one-word descriptions for existence, "eventful" is better than most. Each moment is both different and similar to other moments in countless ways. The associated deluge of information far exceeds the data-processing resources of animals. And it arrives in a variety of encoded forms such as light waves or air waves or chemical particles or contact pressure.

Nevertheless, pragmatic animals need to somehow transform it into rapid beneficial decisions that satisfy the four "F"s. So it's understandable that a first reaction of complex nervous systems is to decode phenomena into figures in either the foreground or the background. Subsequently the background activates much less nerve activity than the foreground. If the animal's most intense activation pattern is like a spotlight, and the information is like a theater stage divided into foreground and background, then the spotlight shines primarily on figures in the foreground.

By contrast, meditative detachment prevents the spotlight from remaining on a single target. The spotlight doesn't linger on the insistent figures in the foreground. Its illumination is stationary long enough to identify the figures' existence but little else. None receive bonus time in the spotlight to deliver extended monologues.

Indeed, as the skill of detachment develops, the spotlight is less exclusive: it's more likely to land on less intense figures in the foreground. After still more development, it evolves. Its size grows and it moves quicker. The foreground figures virtually share the spotlight because no singular figure is in it for a notable time period.

Later, the entire foreground of phenomena ceases to claim the spotlight constantly. Instead, the liberated spotlight can include background figures or "extras" which are normally ignored. These might have worthy qualities but were automatically assigned to the background. The assignment's rationale could have been any number of relative judgments that equate to "boring": too safe, too calm, too stable, too tiny, too weak, too predictable, too motionless. However, observing and analyzing the background more fully might lead to surprising conclusions. Generally speaking, it's valuable advice to periodically question the larger arc of a life. Large-scale long-term plans require the willingness to consider phenomena that don't offer immediate effects or payoffs.

The spotlight can continue to roam farther back, for the background is truly made of layers defined by differing frequencies of change. Each layer's phenomena are perceptible in front of slower layers. Hyperactive chirping birds fly among a background of trees. Trees gradually yield and lose leaves. The trees absorb a background of sunlight, which varies in intensity as the background called Earth rotates and travels its orbit around the Sun.

Ultimately, the spotlight's journey through the background layers only can end at a remote wall of uninformative abstract ideals. Such logically circular ideals can hardly be communicated except through self-evident grammatical constructions. It implies very little to compare real figures to these ideals. "It's more thing-like than a background of nothingness." Or, "It shifts more often than a background of timelessness." "It's more colorful than a background of transparency." "It's more massive than a background of vacuum." "It's more chaotic than a background of stillness." "It's noisier than a background of quietness."

Laid against this extreme "background", even the spotlight certainly qualifies as a "foreground" phenomenon too, as does the whole stage, as does the act of detachment. The attempt to seek emptiness is something non-empty. The sensation of tranquility is less tranquil than an utter void. By their nature, these background ideals can merely be approximated and never captured. On the other hand, the failure to catch the uncatchable shouldn't be a source of anxiety or shame; if perfect nonexistence were ever achieved then no live human could possibly experience it anyway.

I am a theatergoing inanimate carbon rod

As I've continued my regularly scheduled mindfulness meditation, I've rediscovered some uncomfortable truths. For instance, it was uncomfortable to rediscover the truth that I don't usually keep my spine in alignment when I sit. Since an unbalanced spine doesn't provide as much support, it ends up requiring more effort to stay upright and motionless. But a straighter spine doesn't demand much muscle exertion to be sturdy. In short, it's like an inanimate carbon rod. I tried to picture and imitate this ideal.

Consequently, I've learned to imagine an inanimate carbon rod inside my back. It's still, motionless, steady, constant. No matter what else I sense or think, it remains the same. It's connected to the brain and the rest of the body, but it doesn't react to those connections by changing in any way. It doesn't feel or judge or cling to the events and transitions around it...and this is expected behavior for an inanimate carbon rod. Therefore, as unconventional as it sounds, I've begun identifying with it during meditation. I suppose that contemplating fusion with an inanimate carbon rod is as equally plausible and relevant to me as fusion with a scenic mountain. (Seriously, mountain meditation is a real thing.)

However, this analogy for meditation is incomplete. If the metaphor for the observer is an inanimate carbon rod, then what's the metaphor for the observed stuff? The metaphor can't be a singular object, because many individual objects arise during meditation. It can't be something that's manipulable, because meditation is calm observing rather than reactive doing. Neither can the metaphor correspond directly to objective or physical forms of information, because meditation is a subjective or personal perspective. Similarly, the metaphor cannot be an orderly and verified reality, because everyone knows that perceptions and reasoning are often incorrect/inaccurate—that's why careful humans normally apply pragmatic tests to thoughts. More confusing still, the metaphor cannot include a strict division between truth and interpretation, because the inner context of meditation has no external standards that could meaningfully disentangle the two.

All together, these constraints are met by the loose metaphor of a theater. So the rod is a surprise theatergoer. It stands stoically yet attentively in the front row, where it's exposed to nothing except the lighted stage. As for the play, "bewildering" is an adequate one-word description. It's packed with sudden plot twists and set changes and fireworks. It portrays some emotional dramatic themes, but it's too inconsistent and incoherent to yield a satisfying and reasonable resolution to its numerous conflicts. It's at least partially fictionalized. Its diverse elements could fit a variety of artistic interpretations and reinterpretations. Fortunately, if the rod acts like a rod by staying present in the theater long enough and frequently enough, then the elusive patterns of the play could start to show.

Hence, I can attempt detachment by asserting that I'm a theatergoing inanimate carbon rod, and the stuff I observe is nothing more than a fast-moving play performed up on the stage. I'm amused by this analogy, although I wonder exactly how my brain is computing it. I know that it's extremely unlikely that this high-concept procedure maps easily onto my brain; it's probably more like a sophisticated layer of software that executes using general brain parts. The brain is a population of parts, and the storage of a concept is a population of cells. I presume that the interactions among these populations are complicated and non-linear and statistical. Is the image of a polka-dot platypus a cryptic collaboration between the populations for "polka-dot" and "platypus" (not to mention the populations which decode the syntax and semantics of the words)? In the context of detachment, does the population for the rod interact with the population for each distraction? Where in the brain does the interaction occur and over how long of a time interval, approximately?

Nevertheless, the urge to ask these questions doesn't excuse hasty overconfident answers. The recurring temptation is to assign responsibility to a smaller portion "H" of the brain: "This is where everything important to mindfulness meditation eventually happens. All the information flows to H, H does the bulk of the work, and then the results flow out of H." The problem is the assumption of a ridiculous concentration of "sentience" over a relatively small area. Complex mental capabilities come from relationships throughout the brain's specialized populations of parts and cells. General intelligence is a team effort among co-dependent experts. Perhaps a single mental action or effect is a cascade of several actions or effects in the brain, each of which have dedicated regions. Given its coordinated features of impulse-control and free-flowing experience and redirection of attention, I'm guessing that successful states of meditative mindfulness employ a wide-ranging subset of brain parts.

the three-point test for credible prayers

During my wanderings through the WWW not too long ago, I made a piercing comment about prayer. Someone replied with the dare to just give prayer a chance. This entry is addressed to you, wherever you are.

On one hand, this isn't a feasible suggestion: is it sensible for me to attempt an action before I've heard an acceptable rationale for it? I suppose that I could try almost anything, such as pyramid power, but surely I may at least demand beforehand that the suggestion has a plausible explanation to back it up?

On the other hand, it's obviously too strict to require that a comprehensive theory must always precede experimentation. The precise details of the supernatural domain don't need to be coherent and complete in order to check a concrete procedure such as prayer. So, fellow mysterious WWW participant, let's do this.

Of course, for the test of a request for supernatural intervention to be credible, it needs to fulfill three easy points.

1. significance: The success condition must not be due to natural chance. Supernatural intervention cannot be mistaken for a commonplace event. Let's say that the typical probability of the success condition must be 5% or less.
2. falsification: As for the failure condition, it must be obvious and unambiguous and undeniable. If a failure of a test "isn't really a failure", then the test isn't really a test either. 
3. repetition: Ideally, the test must be repeated many times, and the count of all successes must be compared to be count of all failures. It's dishonest to disregard the result of any correctly-performed repetition of a test.

There have been statistical medical studies on the effect of prayer. Of the studies that fulfill these three points, using large-scale populations and clear interpretations, the final conclusion doesn't strongly support prayer's medical effectiveness. Certainly not in comparison to usual medical interventions such as surgery, therapy, pharmaceuticals, etc.

But it's difficult for you or me to carry out complicated studies like these. How about we settle on an alternative that's more personal and quick? While we're in a sober and alert state (no hallucinogens or hypnotic suggestions or group rituals!), each of us will pray for an audible supernatural message. The message (test pattern?) shall happen at normal conversational volume and be encoded in words. 

Note that this isn't a formidable request. Objective sound waves are nothing more than air vibrations, and presumably soulful supernatural entities are capable of some form of language. If the supernatural domain "refuses" to respond, the refusal is indistinguishable from a supernatural that doesn't exist at all. Therefore anything supernatural that refuses to respond is at minimum unconcerned with whether or not you or I think that it exists.

This test fulfills the three points. Based on experience, a message with no known natural source is generally unlikely (#1). An absence of a comfortably-loud stream of words is itself unambiguous (#2). The request for a message can be repeated and counted as many times as needed (#3).

...did it work for you? 

You may object that the prayer didn't work for me because I didn't want it to work, but if that was always the case then you shouldn't have made the original suggestion that I give prayer a chance. After all, if a prayer test only works for those who don't feel the need to test it, then it's not a good evangelism strategy...

the psychological payoffs of religion

Religion fills an intriguing niche in human knowledge. Its propositions are accepted despite an objective lack of effective rationales and results. Especially to an unbiased observer who examines every "experimental trial" without the aid of evasive excuses, the tangible impact of religious belief appears to be either indiscernible, ambiguous, or coincidental. Religion's material payoff is unreliable if not worthless. So it raises the question of why anyone pays its great costs.  Two immediate but uninteresting answers are belief by force, due to societal coercion, and belief by habit, due to intellectual inertia or indifference. However, it's obvious that not all followers of religion fall under either of these categories.

Their beliefs must be providing substantive psychological payoffs: subjective and sometimes subtle payoffs that are indeed all in the follower's head. Many easygoing followers have more or less admitted it. Their nonchalant explanation sounds like, "I don't care whether I'm completely correct about the existence of a supernatural realm and its alleged contents. I care about the effects of the beliefs on me. I need the extra framework for my thoughts, feelings, and actions."

Thus, the propositions of religion are intriguing in another way. These entail serious discrepancies with reality yet produce real consequences within followers. In this sense, false propositions can be pragmatic for followers, as odd as that sounds. Critics miss a learning opportunity when they hastily assume the uselessness of disproved or unproved perspectives. For instance, the shift of a human brain into a meditative or prayer-like mode of operation could obtain a real psychological payoff, regardless of the dubious concept of "transcendence". Or symbolic public ceremonies could enable a social group to furnish mutual encouragement and support, regardless of the dubious concept of "worship".

On the other hand, some payoffs are detrimental. All too often, it's despicable to elevate one subgroup's self-esteem by devaluing other subgroups, or to enhance cohesion by despising nonconformity, or to promote purity by irrationally stigmatizing things or activities, or to strengthen certainty by forbidding expressions of doubt. In practice, reality is messy, and religion's degree of value is complex. Perhaps more credit should be given to humane "cultural" followers who extract some of the psychological payoffs of religion but openly deny its pretenses of infallible moral and metaphysical laws.

scattered thoughts about mindfulness meditation

This one a long time have I watched. All his life has he looked away... to the future, to the horizon. Never his mind on where he was. Hmm? What he was doing. Hmph. Adventure. Heh. Excitement. Heh. —Yoda

I have discovered that all the unhappiness of men arises from one single fact, that they cannot stay quietly in their own chamber.  —Blaise Pascal

SERENITY NOW! —Frank Costanza

I recently began a habit of private mindfulness/insight meditation...solely for the reported benefits to psychological well-being. I'm certainly not purposely pursuing the "insight" or "wisdom" that religious faiths claim to offer. Neither do I assume that age and/or foreignness are proofs of accuracy and/or usefulness. Hence I've only studied two well-known introductions which have a reputation for succinct instructions, customized for contemporary English speakers, rather than supernatural teachings or extraneous concepts: Mindfulness in Plain English and Wherever You Go There You Are.

Yet, for my picky taste, even these contained some occasional comments that were too religious or ethnocentric. I realize the authors' predicament: they're attempting to bridge radically different cultural contexts. Since they portray the source culture's ideas and values as solutions, they can hardly be blamed when they portray some of the destination culture's ideas and values as one-sided problems. They didn't invent the simplistic split into perfect-opposite stereotypes of "Western" and "Eastern", so they can hardly be blamed for invoking it. They're purposely avoiding the foreign words and metaphors in the source culture, so they (mostly Kabat-Zinn) can hardly be blamed for resorting now and then to the typical set of clichés: "psychic", "universe",  "quantum", "inner vision", "soul", "contemplation", "Mother Nature", "mind states", "liberation", "dimension", "expansion", "holistic", "fullness", "deep", "Other", "oneness", "reductionist", "being" (a present participle of "be" in opposition to "doing"). And "energy" as a respectable code word for "mana", which happens to be one of my recurring peeves. They're communicating techniques that were originally embedded in larger viewpoints, so they can hardly be blamed for lapsing into short lectures about the supporting themes of those viewpoints. I know they're trying. I sound like tourists who complain about the strangeness of a setting that they themselves chose to visit.

However, my disbelief in such abstract descriptions doesn't force disbelief in the basic action of mindfulness meditation or of its rewards. (It's one type out of many, but for the remainder of this entry I'll call it "meditation" for short.) I simply employ alternative descriptions that match the best ideas I have about reality—namely, that minds don't have independent existence but are computations of brains. Therefore I consider meditation as a particular activity of my brain matter. As with any pattern of brain activity, repetitions of the pattern train or reinforce it. This will adjust the relative sensitivity of competing brain paths, i.e. learning. On some minor level my brain will function differently, regardless of whether I (or anyone else) label the difference as "freeing my mind". I suspect that a more testable label is "reprogramming my thalamus".

Specifically, my current understanding of meditation is summarized by three interlocking factors: attention, attitude, awareness. In the more-natural mode of the brain, awareness of a notable object produces an associated reaction. That reaction is a shift of attitude into general categories such as attraction or aversion, or pleasure or pain, or affection or aggression. Then that attitude commands attention and narrows or focuses it further, thereby sacrificing everything else in awareness. While the brain is in this mode, appetites and desires of varying sophistication steal attention again and again. Numerous popular metaphors express the cumulative effect: lesser impulse control, greater tunnel vision, egocentrism/selfishness, never-ending search for novelties, failure to see the Big Picture, disregard for long-term consequences, and so on. The defining characteristic of this mode is the hastiness by which perception proceeds from the earlier stage of wider, raw, objective awareness into the later stage of limited, oversimplified, and biased viewpoints.

Unlike this mode, a brain in meditation prolongs the initial stage of greater awareness, minimizes natural demands to deflect attention, and denies the dictates of normal attitudes or instincts. The method is to select a neutral and effortless target and keep it foremost in attention. Each and every time that the meditator notices that their attention wandered, they experience it nonchalantly and disengage from those thoughts. Then they redirect attention back. I followed the authors' advice to meditate on my breath, although I found it easier to sense the slight motions of my chest than air passing through my nostrils.

Indeed, something else the authors make clear is that the chosen target isn't the underlying motivation. The goal is the entire process of experiencing the distractions and then practicing detached reactions to the distractions. Meditation is the development of a skill. As such, the resulting knowledge is in tacit form. Knowledge about the target is much less important than the target's role as a baseline or standard for the task of recognizing distractions. And the more often that distractions are seen and treated as potential ideas instead of irresistible usurpers of all attention, the easier it is for the meditator to maintain sober awareness and carry out voluntary choices with full context, especially under stressful conditions.

In other words, an attitude of detachment is part of meditation. But I needed to rethink some of my misconceptions in order to appreciate it. In this realm, detachment certainly isn't for eliminating all emotions toward everything. To the contrary, the authors eagerly recommend careful cultivation of friendliness and compassion. Neither does it imply permanent isolation and deprivation. Desires don't stop, including generous desires to improve reality and to behave excellently. Detachment is a new style of informed interaction with things and also ideas about things. It's weighing the range of possible motives and ends. Detachment prevents personal preferences from constricting and coloring the flow of information. In so doing it enables more objectivity.

Clearly, the strategy of detachment is less exotic than sometimes thought. It's similar to the sentiment of the saying, "Think twice." It's the consolation of keeping a diary. It's why someone gives themselves time to "cool off" first before continuing a discussion. It's part of the "talking cure" that permits the talker to convert trauma into a verbal form and confront it symbolically. It's visualizing a feared scenario to become desensitized to it. It's avoiding a temptation not by forcibly fleeing it, which gives it too much respect, but by letting the unfulfilled temptation sit and beg until it resigns and fades. The coping mechanisms of many beliefs, faith-based or not, resemble the attitude of detachment.

Nevertheless, the achievement of detachment is much more subtle in meditation. As many ways as there are to think, detachment drops momentarily, attention drifts away from the target altogether, and the lapse itself doesn't enter awareness until the brain has completed a short detour. For instance, I've discovered a few inexpert traps, so I can offer some inexpert commentary and tips—none of which are original, complete, or applicable to everyone.

• lofty expectations: One obvious problem with lofty expectations is predictable disappointment when the expectations aren't met in a short amount of time, which could prompt the hasty decision to quit. But a more sneaky side-effect is an intrusive attitude of anxious expectation. Waiting in suspense for something unusual to happen is a distraction. 
• harsh self-evaluation: Along with lofty expectations for quick payoffs, strict expectations for oneself are also distractions. It's worth reiterating that meditation is about increasing awareness of whatever happens now. If the present task is gently keeping the chosen target in attention, then it's incorrect to fill the present with excessive attention on the failure in the previous moment. The past has passed. It's not necessary to systematically judge "progress". Each moment is another chance, and each chance cannot be either retried nor taken ahead of time. The same truism applies to evaluating the session as a whole. The rest of a session isn't "ruined" by the prior part of it. Paying too much attention to self-frustration is sacrificing the present to pay useless homage to the past.
• forced/labored breathing: Attention to breathing isn't a breathing exercise. A few deep breaths can help initiate calm before starting or restore it after an external interruption, but most of the time breathing should be perceived not consciously ordered. Similarly, close attention to breathing doesn't include thoughts such as images or sounds that are somehow related to breathing. In this case, the target of attention isn't an elaborately constructed daydream of the current meditation session, or the noise of the air movements, or analyses of the respiratory system. The target is, well, the natural sensation of breathing. It's not meant to be puzzling.
• searching: The urge to search for interesting phenomena is incompatible with the relaxed attitude of meditation. According to the old analogy, active investigation is like striding quickly through a stream to find something that sunk to the bottom. Or it's like a questioner whose continual talking interferes with the other speaker's attempts to answer. The searcher's own frantic actions disturb and conceal. Receptiveness is superior to haphazard rechecks.
• narration: Meditation is nonverbal. During the unprocessed stage of unadorned awareness, everything can only be nonsymbolic and impersonal. The corresponding questions "What does X mean?" or "What does X matter to me?" arise in later stages of interpretation. When words appear in thoughts, that's a signal to once again release attention and restore it to the meditation target. It's true that narration represents some degree of detachment, but it's still not ideal. One important exception is some form of counting to help recapture attention, provided the count doesn't continue for too long.
• music: Music is infamous for repeating itself involuntarily in humans' attention, whether or not they're meditating. As usual, the response is to note it, not overreact by fixating on it more, and mildly lift the meditation target back into attention. The volume can be turned down, metaphorically. The music might persist as a murmur. Or subside and resume later. Or transition into some other piece of music. In any case, it's not an opportunity to take a break, and it's not an opponent to wrestle into submission. It's one more item of experience. (The meditator's feeling of annoyance about some music is one more item of experience, too.)  
• boredom/passage of time: Within an unstressed minute, twelve to sixteen breaths commonly occur—approximately four to five seconds for one complete cycle of inhaling, exhaling, and the associated pauses. Breaths are short time periods: 60 or more in five minutes. Observing anything 60 times in succession could produce a feeling of boredom...despite the many unintentional breaks that are sprinkled throughout a beginner's meditation. Again, the root issue is distraction from the chosen target's existence in the present alone. The target isn't all 52 preceding breaths or all 52 following breaths. It's the current breath, no matter its level of uniqueness. In the same way, anxiety about time consumption presumes concern about a wider gap of time, as well as compulsive rescheduling. If the session is happening in a block of time reserved for it ahead of time, perhaps with an alarm to mark the end, then it's fruitless to worry about taking up time for everything else. A schedule with genuine reservations of time should enable the meditator to relax about the passage of time. Anybody can just take reservations. Really, the most important part of the reservation is holding it. That's why someone has reservations: to not run out of a finite quantity like time.
• body drooping/movement: Meditation and relaxation are symbiotic but not synonymous. Meditative awareness implies constant vigilance. The intent of the customary postures is stillness without rigidity and without drowsiness. Drooping is an indicator that meditation might be changing into partial sleep. In that mode, everything appears less vivid, including the target. On the other hand, moving around too frequently can be a trap. One movement leads to more movements, then more after that. Meditation exposes the sheer variety of habitual superfluous movements such as tilting the head, licking the lips, stretching the back, and so on. Indulging in one invites the others.
• thought replacement: One primitive form of human self-regulation is passionately striving to think about something else. But that's not meditation (or not this kind). Its characteristic attitude is identified as weightless, quick, nonjudgmental, unassuming, broad-minded, unselfish, serene, positive, open. Paradoxical or not, detachment is acceptance. It's not declaring that everything is good but withholding an impromptu or mindless declaration of whether anything is good or bad. It's watching a thought and then not replacing it forcefully but nimbly returning attention to the target, which never vanished in the meantime. It's realizing that the gamut of the brain's inventive output isn't always accurate or useful. And also that, by introducing sufficient feedback loops via training like meditation, humans can more effectively recognize and circumvent the worst tendencies, if they so choose.

the pragmatism triangle

My opinion is that philosophical pragmatism observes and recommends the indispensable triangle of 1. thoughts, 2. actions, and 3. realities.

• (1 and 2) The meaning of thoughts is demonstrated by the resulting actions. Thoughts guide actions. Without discernible effects on actions, thoughts are suspect. Actions are clues about which thoughts really matter, as opposed to which thoughts are hollow or superficial aspirations. Also, actions are the means both to test the accuracy of new thoughts through experimentation and to discover new thoughts through investigation.
• (1 and 3) By the basic nature of humanity in the universe, realities are mediated by thoughts. In so doing, preexisting thoughts embellish realities through interpretation, bias, emphasis, and interpolation. On the other hand, realities lead to honest revisions of thoughts. Through the detection of regularities and patterns, as well as exceptions, realities are the raw material of deeper and larger thoughts that can be reapplied to make predictions or to explain the present or past.  
• (2 and 3) Of course, actions are how realities change. But realities might resist or counter actions and thereby throw doubt on the level of realism that backs those actions. 

biology and information theory

One sign of a highly technical theory's influence and profundity is the improbable attention it receives in seemingly unrelated if not inappropriate contexts. Information theory certainly qualifies. Unfortunately one of these peripheral contexts is abstract arguments against biology.

The argument based on information theory follows the template of a more popular argument based on the Second Law of the theory of thermodynamics: "Biology cannot increase in orderly complexity because the Second Law states that disorder increases over time." The variant using information theory is "Biology cannot increase in orderly complexity because information theory states that the result of random modifications of an orderly message is nothing more than an unintelligible message. These random modifications are the noise of the corresponding information channel, and the noise reduces its optimal information rate."

However, the intuitive appeal of either argument relies on ignorance of the extraordinary scale of biology's abundant populations and prolonged time periods. Regardless of an event's slim probability, a sufficiently massive number of trials actually implies that it's more likely that the event will happen. In merely 13 die rolls, the probability of never rolling 6 is less than 1 in 10. Perhaps many biological changes are destructive like the metaphors of thermodynamic disorder or noisy information, and the candidates that experience those changes are worse-off. Yet the multitude of candidate organisms throughout epochs can still yield the event of a comparatively rare constructive change, and thereafter the change spreads through reproduction of that singular beneficiary. (Although according to the, y'know, facts, occasionally the constructive events have indeed occurred too rarely to compensate for rapid changes in circumstances—mass extinctions.)

Furthermore, this application of information theory prompts more questions. If it were accurate to analyze biology as an information channel in which all organisms were messages, and all modifications to organisms were noise, then how would the first noise-free organisms originate? Presumably from "The Great Communicator"...but the usual name for theoretical message senders is "Alice". Assuming all the first organisms were perfectly communicated messages from Alice, then later organisms could only have become more noisy or less perfect. Isn't this implied distinction between "message" and "noise" so narrow that it verges on nonsensical? Given all the actual differences between the first organisms and organisms in the present, is it apt for all these differences to qualify as increases in noise, i.e. always relative degradation? Is it accurate to suppose that every grandparent were a more precise expression of Alice's original message than every grandchild? Are the implications of this proposition consistent with human interactions with reality? In other words, is it true in the pragmatic sense?

In contrast, real biology's ambiguity of "message" and "noise" is closer to something else in information theory. Extreme information ambiguity is a defining feature of the unbreakable encryption strategy of a one time pad. The "pad" itself contains a long encryption key that's strongly random: no portion of the key/pad can be calculated from any other portion. Then sequential portions of this key are used to encrypt sequential small portions of a message. In effect, the key from the pad acts like the worst possible kind of communication noise. The key's "noise" affects each small portion of the message and the "noise" is always unpredictably different for each. It's like sending numerous tiny encrypted "micro-messages" and using a separate independent key for each micro-message. This is secrecy by brute-force. Hence the strength of this strategy is also its weakness. The large quantity of random and therefore incompressible key information must itself be exchanged over a sufficiently secure and efficient channel. But if a superior channel meets these requirements then it should communicate the message instead! (The strategy could still be appropriate if the superior channel for the key, e.g. handing over a literal pad in-person in the past, differs from the inferior channel for the secret message, e.g. series of short radio broadcasts in the future.)

Consequently, depending on how closely biological information matches the metaphor of a one time pad, nobody should be surprised by the difficulty of disentangling its "messages" from its "noise". Inquisitive humans are the interceptors of the channel. The recipient of the channel is the organism, and the sender of the channel is the organism's ancestor(s). The biological information has flowed over a staggering number of channels or generations. In doing so, it has absorbed noise coming from an ever-changing key on the one time pad commonly known as the universe.

At the same time, the environment of the organism is ever-changing. This means that the definition of sensible biological information is also ever-changing, since biological information is sensible insofar as it corresponds successfully to an environment—oxygen-breathing organisms aren't sensible in an oxygen-deprived environment. Unlike the phantasmal perfection of first organisms communicated by a non-biological Alice, this concept of environmental sensibility is inescapably relative and limited. Metaphorically speaking, the "message" consists of biological information with environmental sensibility, and the rest is "noise". Due to environmental changes, the same bits of biological information can change from message to noise and back. Correct answers cease to be correct when the questions transform.

The inherent uncertainty of a one time pad forces an ignorant interceptor to admit that any possible message could result in any possible encrypted message. The one time pad causes the sender's input message to diverge into a random output message. In the context of restrictive human communication, the recipient is displeased by receiving any other message than the sender's. But in the context of biology, a descendant organism that receives innovative information could thereby surpass the ancestor in the broad criterion of environmental sensibility, if only by a little. To use an overstretched analogy, this biological case is more like a sender who sent the message "The meeting is at 3:30," and then the message changed along the way to "The meeting is at 3:00"...while the meeting was rescheduled to 3:15 anyway.

the Dumbo feather of ethics

Often, deep discussions about religion handle it as a collection of otherworldly ideas. But these necessary discussions seem irrelevant to many believers. They don't value religion primarily because of the many confusing details of its ideas, which they may not study seriously anyway (angels on pins, anyone?). They value religion because of its pragmatic impact on their everyday lives. They view religion as a cultural tool for specific purposes. Like pounding nails with a rock, the adequate usefulness of a tool like religion overpowers legitimate concerns about the tool's deficiencies.

In particular, throughout the history of civilization, religions have been tools for the encouragement of good behavior. As long as the religion was "proper", few objected to this traditional assignment. Even nonconformist writers, who mostly ignored religion in their own lives, nevertheless assumed that religiosity was essential to the ethical training of the lowly and bestial majority of society. Within prisons, clergy were welcomed as possible rehabilitation tools. In twelve step behavior modification programs such as "______ Anonymous" religiosity was one of the original tools. Schools included religion classes as tools for character development. Parents with religious childhoods, who may have stopped believing long ago, used churches as tools to ensure that their children absorbed the "right" cultural heritage with the corresponding baseline of behavioral expectations.

By contrast, a self-consistent atheistic perspective cannot link good behavior and the questionable ideas of religions. However, breaking the link implies a surprising compliment to the religious humans who consistently exhibit good behavior—who are good whether or not their religion's predominant morality agrees with them (perhaps they respond to the difference by creating a secondary form that's "reinterpreted" or "modernized" or "reformed"). If religiosity isn't a vital factor in their good behavior, then via process of elimination the vital factor is always them. The atheist can't give credit to their gods or to their religions. They may say that they're acting as an appendage of a divine compassionate being or that they're fueled by supernatural love. But the atheist must jump to the less far-fetched conclusion: they're just decent humans...who also are too hasty to accept statements about the existence of gods.

Consequently, the supposed religious basis of good behavior is instead a placebo illusion which yields imaginary additional moral fiber. It's ineffective apart from the believer's thoughts. It's akin to the trick feather in the movie Dumbo that the titular elephant holds while flying (tvtropes.org has alternative examples). Ultimately Dumbo realizes that the feather is a deception; Dumbo can fly without it. Similarly, to blame religion for genuine ethical motivation and determination is to act like Dumbo. Like Dumbo and the feather, genuinely ethical believers could be ethical without their religion. Religion can be a container or setting for describing ethics, but humane ethics aren't limited by it.

In reality, of course, modern decision-makers with faith-beliefs cannot face all modern ethical decisions through overstretched comparisons to ancient religious stories. That's why the more honest ones tend to mention "timeless principles" extracted from the religion, since the "raw" form contains ethical problems like toleration of slavery, religious-warfare, and inequality of all varieties. Religion is the Dumbo feather of ethics. It might be a helpful educational tool at first. Yet the one clinging to it is the real origin of all of its illusory ethical power. They cannot avoid ethical responsibility.

only bad witches are ugly

The title of this entry is a famous quote from The Wizard Of Oz. Yes, I realize it's awful to spread the idea that goodness is correlated with beauty. But that's not today's topic.

Today's topic is the logic of sets. When a witch says "only bad witches are ugly", which meaning is she communicating in regard to which witches are in which sets? She means that for any witch in the "ugly" set, that witch is also in the set of "bad". This implies that the ugly witches are a subset of the bad witches. Membership in the ugly set is always accompanied by membership in the bad set. Also, any witch that is not bad (good) is therefore not ugly (beautiful); for they could only be ugly if they were also bad.

But the more notable distinction is what the witch isn't claiming about these sets. The witch said nothing certain about whether all beautiful witches are good. All she told us is that each ugly witch is bad. That doesn't contradict the possibility of a beautiful witch who is also bad. Not all the bad witches are necessarily ugly. It's like a deck of playing cards. Each heart is a red card. But that doesn't mean all the red cards are hearts.

In related news, Oz the Great and Powerful has some slow-paced sections that might cause theater-goers' thoughts to wander.

ill-fitting realities

"It doesn't matter whether it works for you. It works for me." Some thoughts are expected to differ because the thinkers differ. These thoughts are like shirts. Each thinker peruses the rack of various optional thoughts, picks one, tries it on, and finally integrates it into their ensemble. In broad terms the goal is to achieve a suitable fit for the shape and style of prior thoughts.

The name of this category is personal preference. From a pragmatic perspective, two of its essential characteristics are extremely limited: its range and its verification methods. Specifically, the range of personal preference is only the person, and the verification methods are only the person's mental "work". The personal preference of one human doesn't apply elsewhere, and the human is the one witness of it (firsthand). In effect personal preference entails an exceptionally narrow definition of applicability or truthfulness.

However, for any number of reasons, some commentators adore the category of personal preference (they personally prefer personal preference?). As often as possible, they lump inappropriate propositions into it, perhaps to avoid further discussion. "My proposition doesn't fit you? Then we'll treat it as a personal preference and move on."

Nevertheless, their botched classification will show up in practice. Regardless of how poorly it fits a particular human's preferences, it can also be verified repeatedly by impersonal methods. At this point, a reasonable pragmatist judges that the proposition isn't a "personal preference" but an ill-fitting reality. Its incidental discomfort to a human doesn't override the firm clues coming from the alternative methods of verification.

Many examples of ill-fitting realities are obvious and unavoidable. To complain about one is to make a joke, because everyone already knows it's futile to pretend that personal preference constantly affects the real motions of the rest of the universe. "The weather forecast we've been given is awful, in my opinion. I'd like to return it." "Of all the days for my car to have sudden engine trouble. This is unacceptable to me." "I collided with him as I danced carelessly. How dare he throw off my groove." (Of course some personal preferences, i.e. brain signals, eventually trigger bodily actions that in turn affect matter outside oneself, including actions as minimal as a change in facial expression.)

Not all ill-fitting realities are as easy to identify, but the level of abstraction is irrelevant to the underlying principle. Mystical propositions aren't exempt. It's reasonable to continue to demand methods of verification which are consistent, coherent, and feasible. Any proposition is truthful to the degree that its corresponding methods of verification yield sufficient results.

Furthermore, if the proposition is so insubstantial that it's more or less isolated from most realities of the universe, then personal preference could be the solitary remaining data-point behind it. Pragmatically speaking, such propositions are indeed personal preferences of scant meaningfulness. For instance, these conditions might hold for the mystical proposition of a singular unknown plan guiding the universe, namely "Fate". If every actual event is always in accordance with Fate, then Fate is pragmatically indistinguishable from Fate's logical opposite of nonexistence, namely "Not-Fate". Therefore the airy concept of Fate is untethered from earthy minutiae. The basis for accepting it is personal preference. If either Fate or Not-Fate fits someone's brain, they may wear it.

The conflict arises after the believer tries to attach more details to Fate. Once they do, Fate ceases to be compatible with every actual event...theoretically, at least. On the presumption that it's Fate for Marvin and Marcie to be in a romantic relationship, their breakup throws doubt on how well Fate corresponds to the reality of their broken relationship. On the presumption that it's Fate for Marvin or Marcie to work in factories that manufacture videotapes, their loss of employment throws doubt on how well Fate corresponds to the reality of their employment elsewhere (or unemployment). On the presumption that it's Fate for their children to earn incomes at around the 33% percentile of the working population, their children's income at around 80% throws doubt on how well Fate corresponds to the reality of their income. These or any other "violations" indicate that Not-Fate could be an ill-fitting reality...to those who feel that Fate fits them better.

The upshot is that generalizable propositions typically venture outside the tiny range of personal preference. It's not sensible to treat these like simple personal preferences, despite the all-too-human urge to quickly reject ill-fitting thoughts. "The idea works for me" doesn't even satisfy pragmatism's easy standard when "works" really means "matches my wishes" rather than means "matches ideas with proven correspondences to realities". In that case a pragmatist may reply that the speaker is under the mistaken impression that the idea works for them; future interactions with an ill-fitting reality could demonstrate in what way the impression turns out to be mistaken.