moncrief

I've started a lot of printhouse articles, writing thousands and thousands of words. Only two ever made it to publication. Here's excerpts from and information about three unfinished pieces—what inspired them, what I was trying to do with them, and why I didn't complete/publish them.

Musings on Meditation

“It's unfortunate how the term “meditation” has come to signify little more than a vague, self-attending good.”

“approachable corporate mindfulness and ineffable ascetic spiritual gurus create a vague, unexciting definition of meditation. It might be “good for you”, but it's still something your boss wants to you to do off-the-clock, or the project of dedicating your life to keeping your eyes closed. Neither are appealing.”

Background

For the last nine months or so, I've been meditating somewhat regularly, if not quite as diligently as I'd like. Think ~50% of days, split into weeks-long stretches on and off, usually for 10-25 minutes. Disciplined meditation is incredible; it's had the highest time-investment to life-impact ratio of any habit I've picked up. My phenomenology is noticeably more pleasant when I'm on a solid meditation streak; 30+ minutes of meditation substantially softens the tone of the rest of the day. However, it's hard for me to meditate when things aren't going well, and my mind is racing. It get frustrating when I'm in a downswing, where my sits aren't as productive and soothing as they were last week. These frustrations make it harder to regularly meditate—something I want to overcome (writing this out explicitly is helpful, honestly)

What I was trying to do

This essay was going to be a reflection on what meditation means to me, personally, because it's such an overloaded term. My perspective on meditation is heavily informed by Nick Cammarata, Rob Burbea, and Culdasa, with a smattering of other influences and my own beginner insights. The thesis was “Meditation is awareness for the sake of awareness”. Being aware (conscious, alive, having qualia) is the fundamental constant across anyone's existence. To me, meditation is about looking at this awareness, and becoming more skillful at managing it. Look beyond its content, toward its shape—where is your attention? How did it get there? How does it move? How much control do “you” have over it? In the space of your phenomenological experience, where are “you”? What's the dividing line between content and shape? By developing the mental tools and insights needed to explore these questions in a pre-verbal fashion, meditation can enable somebody to profoundly transform their phenomenological experience/inner life.

What went wrong

I tried to start by looking at popular western conceptions of meditation—a dichotomy between new-age mindfulness corporate productivity sludge and inscrutably boring eastern religious practice. I got bored writing this, and it felt like too bold of a claim, one that I couldn't fully pin down and defend. I thought I needed it to back up the validity of my own perspective; but my own perspective felt too amateruish to defend. I don't even meditate every day myself, I rarely sit for more than 20 minutes, etc. Self-doubt. I still do love meditation, and hope to work through the obstacles that can pull me away from it. I'm happy to discuss it whenever with whoever.

Coffee with a Friend, Apple in your Mind

“Even while considering the 'same thing'—an apple—his phenomenological experience of is profoundly different from yours. Extending the skeptical implications, you must suspect that the entire conversation you've shared that morning, the friendship you've shared all those years, the memories you'll carry forever, have been processed, experienced, and remembered using different frameworks, different techniques, different methods. All of it has been, on a phenomenological level, very different. Yet in spite of that you continue to speak—you're completely intelligible to one another, you have a theory of mind for each other, you believe you're doing the 'same thing'; having a conversation about topics you're both familiar with. All somehow in the shadow of the fact that your internal worlds are alien to one another.”

“You and your friend can both entertain the 'information' of 'apple', but you organize and operate on it in profoundly different ways. The phenomenological experience of engaging with the abstract concept of 'an apple' differs between you two.”

“To be human means being subject to external sensory input and internal emotional feeling; having access to subjective-but-generally-reliable memory and introspective power of thought and calculation. We all know this, intuitively, and we have a mental model of it—'what it means to be human'—intuited from our phenomenological experience. This model is the expected form of an arbitrary moment of experience; we'll call it our phenomenological frame. The information within the frame varies from moment to moment. Sometimes we're happy or sad, warm or cold, tired or wired. Memories and associations are constantly being created, reinforced, and forgotten. We can consider simulations of arbitrary moments we’ve never experienced, like being a pirate hundreds of years ago or living on mars in the future. Phenomenological frame is the structure underneath all the possibilities variety of information—it's not 'the way you are', but 'the way you are the ways you are'.”

“a common communicative mistake: using our individual phenomenological frame, or even a subset of it, in the place of the space of all human phenomena when communicating with another human. The reason for this seem intuitively obvious: we can model and use our individual phenomenological frame. By definition, we cannot model and use the space of all human phenomena. If we could, then it would be included in our own phenomenological frame. When working to communicate, of course we're more likely to err on using what we can rather than deferring to what we can't”

“If you protest this by saying “no, of course I don't think my phenomenological frame can be applied to all humans” you're probably defining phenomenological frame in a more precise manner than I am. Do your casual-conversation theories of mind for everyone you meet account for the variety of possible ways they visualize an apple, or any other arbitrary concept? The variety of possible phenomenological norms by which your words travel from their eardrums to their conscious mind, and by which they muster and respond with a spoken phrase of their own? Almost certainly not. When you conceive of their experience, you almost certainly use a frame almost exactly like your own. You have no other choice.”

Background

I'm very interested in phenomenology and consciousness. I think the difficulty of objectively studying these topics has left them woefully under-explored—it's frightening to address how little we really know about the fundamentals of our existence. This essay was my first serious attempt to write an essay on phenomenology.

What I was trying to do

You may have seen a image floating around, asking what you see in your head when asked to “picture an apple”. There's a range of six images, from completely blank to a photo-realistic apple. The point of the meme is to expose who has 'aphantasia'—the inability to generate mental imagery. If you don't have aphantasia, you might be shocked to find out others do. Similarly, some people (including myself) have a strong, loud, ever-present internal monologue, while others never think in language. In this paper, I wanted to use these known, highly-obvious phenomenological differences—the ability to generate mental imagery vs the inability to, the habit of thinking in language vs not—as a jumping-off point to consider what other sorts of phenomenological differences may exist between individuals. I marvelled at humanity's ability to communicate in spite of known phenomenological diversity, and hypothesized that phenomenological diversity may be way broader than we know; by the nature of being subjective and pre-linguistic, it's extremely difficult to accurately assess how your phenomenology compares to somebody else's. Most of the body of the paper was developing a concept I called “phenomenological frame”; the hypothetical moment-to-moment constants of an individual's phenomenology, independent of content. For example, if you think via an internal monologue of English language, this would be a part of your phenomenological frame—the actually words being thought at any given moment would not. I proposed the idea that many miscommunications are caused by individuals implicitly assuming that the space of possibilities in their phenomenological frame is equivalent to the space of possibilities across all human phenomenological frames.

What went wrong

I had a lot of fun writing this one, but couldn't pull it all together. Every paragraph opened up new questions, many without obvious answers or even obvious places to do research. “Phenomenological frame” seemed too loose. I didn't feel like I could articulate clear distinction between the “frame” I was describing and the “content” therein, or explain how phenomenological frame evolves and expands. I worried that I was just clumsily, accidentally plagiarizing ideas, since I hadn't rigorously studied mainstream phenomenology. These doubts were magnified when I started reading Andy Clark's (brilliant) Surfing Uncertainty, a very technical book about predictive processing and embodied intelligence. Clark's book explored similar ideas to what this essay was talking about, but with much greater rigour—decades of research and a robust, consistent language that avoids the ambiguity of my 'phenomenological frame'. All that said, I had a lot of fun thinking about these ideas. I didn't finish Surfing Uncertainty, as it moved into deeper discussions of neuroscience, complexity and nuance I wasn't motivated enough to deal with. But if I get around to it, I'll definitely come back to take another look at these ideas. Phenomenology is a topic I can't seem to pull myself away from.

I'll Meet You in The Middle of our Language

“There's nowhere correct to start, so I'll ask you pause for a moment and take a deep breath. Feel it in your nose. Think about your day. Think about waking up tucked under the covers of your bed, the morning light streaming in through a nearby window. Dust floating in the sunbeams. Hold the image in your mind. Re-read the statement above. Then we'll try again. I'm talking about a room, maybe ten feet by ten, painted in a cool blue. The bed is queen-sized, mattress atop a bare black metal frame tucked into the corner across from a two-door closet. It's made up with a fitted beige sheet, a top sheet, a fuzzy navy-blue polyester blanket, and a heavy white comforter wrapped in a tartan-patterned comforter cover fastened by a series of small white plastic snap buttons each spaced several inches apart. You're tucked between the sheets, on top of the fitted sheet and underneath the top sheet and the blanket and the comforter wrapped in its comforter cover. Across from the bed and visible is a desk, black, Ikea. The desk is speckled with chips and cracks, pinpoints of damage where the cheap particleboard construction, underneath the paint is visible. Next to the desk is a bookshelf, five feet tall and eighteen inches wide... I could go on. But at some point, I'd return to the light, to the dust in the sunbeams—and no matter how closely I guided you, you wouldn't be in the same place I am.”

“This essay is paradoxical. It attempts to articulate the insufficiency of language in language. To succeed, it must fail. I haven't convinced you of anything unless you come to understand you're not reading what I'm writing. More optimistically, this essay is an attempt to reach out, as far as an essay can. It will strain to stretch over an unspeakable chasm, till something breaks. It hopes that you will see a pattern in the scattered pieces.”

“Everything we experience takes place in the context of our own ineffable internal world, and everything we experience is our primary source of truth [...] words are not fungible with experience. It doesn't matter how many words I give you, I can't give you my ineffable internal world—and you can't give me yours, either. We can only give each other words.”

“Every sentence that comes out of your mouth is a JPEG file crushed into oblivion, a smeared mess that only vaguely gestures toward the form of the image it wants to represent. This isn't your fault, of course.”

Background

In writing the last essay, I found myself more and more moved by the way language bridges gaps between idiosyncratic phenomenology. It seemed miraculous. At the same time, I know that language doesn't map perfectly onto phenomenological experience—it's a social technology, lossy compression. What does this imply about our linguistic culture, and the intellectual work done within it?

What I was trying to do

Much of what was intended for this paper was eventually expressed in my published “Why I'm Skeptical of Language”. I recommend reading that if you haven't. This paper opened up in a personal and subjective fashion, very self-aware of its paradoxical position, using language to express the limitations of language. I wanted to display how I reached the worldview i'm at now, in part to convey how miraculous it is that we can communicate at all. This was going to move into my own theory of theory, which is something I'd like to save for another essay, or when I return to this one.

What went wrong

Not having written “Why I'm Skeptical of Language”, I struggled to develop and clearly express the ideas included there. Even after getting those ideas on-paper (much of what I have reads like a longer-form version of “Why I'm Skeptical of Language”), I felt a lot of pressure when theorizing about theory. Moving up meta-levels seemed to demand greater rigour. To comment on what theory does, how it works, I felt I better really understand it. To make this worse, I wasn't sure if my ideas were original, or just retreading old ground. I got lost going down rabbit holes, trying to make sure all of my implicit assumptions were defensible, terrified of leaving some naive hole in the middle of such a vulnerable, ambitious essay. I'm saying less about this one because out of all of these, it's the one I'm most interested in completing. Writing this summary, reflecting on what I was able to express in “Why I'm Skeptical of Language”, I feel more confident I could wrap this essay up nicely. It might not be perfect, but blog posts don't have to be.

...

Did I say three? There's one more. This last one is about video games. It's a bonus. No excerpts are included because the “What I was trying to do” covers the intended content better than the original essay did.

Guiding vs Piloting

Background

I love fighting games, and I've played a lot of them. Recently, I've been playing some Marvel vs Capcom 2, an extremely broken high-octane classic. MvC2 allows for a massive amount of strategic freedom, but this depth is realized through lighting-fast, highly-precise inputs. Most fighting games are moving away from demanding that players master this level of technical complexity, hoping to attract a larger audience.

What I was trying to do

I was trying to argue that lowering execution barrier, while good for accessibility, has had a bigger impact on fighting games than many want to admit. I wanted to argue that older games, like MvC2, had an execution ethos I called “piloting”—the characters are manipulated through small, discrete, unforgiving actions. Since fighting games were still a new-ish genre, the developers had comparatively little insight into how players would choose to link these actions together. Since games couldn't be patched, bugs and exploits existed everywhere. This resulted in games with a high degree of freedom, a sandbox potentially full of incredibly powerful, nuanced tools, gated behind high execution demands. The character is “piloted”, like a fighter jet, demanding high precision to achieve amply deadly results. Modern games, by comparison, simplify execution a lot. Devs are more aware of how tools will be used, and understand the full space of their game better. Powerful strategies that aren't a part of the dev's vision will inevitably be patched out, and both balance patches and input handling will guide players toward a playstyle that is at least approved by, if not downright designed by, the developer themselves. The character is “guided”, employing pre-meditated strategies with less room for flexibility. However, “guiding” can never achieve the nuance of “piloting”, because the precision intrinsic to piloting allows for a huge range of subtle strategic decisions employed via highly-precise execution requirements. The primary example I was thinking of was resets with Magneto in MvC2—intentionally dropping a combo, giving the opponent a chance to defend, but immediately following up that dropped combo with an incredibly fast, difficult-to-stop mixup, and being rewarded with a fresh combo if it hits (the first few hits of a combo do a lot more damage; two 5-hit combos will do way more damage than one 10-hit combo, making resets a worthwhile risk). Magneto's resets are celebrated part of the game, but many of them emerge from extremely tight execution windows in the middle of his already-difficult ROM infinite, and they're most effective when the opponent has no idea where they could be coming from. This is to say, a “guided character” design philosophy could never replicate the deadly drama of Magneto resets; if resets opportunities were easier, appearing at pre-determined, developer-approved times, a well-studied defender could be much more well-prepared for them. Contrast this against somebody trying to defend against a talented Magneto pilot who can reset them in obscure ways, seemingly at any moment, through frame-perfect execution followed up by viscous combos.

What went wrong

I love fighting games, but I suck at execution, and couldn't really back this argument up as cleanly as I'd like. While there's a clear difference between old games like MvC2 and new games like DBFZ, I'm not actually good enough to meaningfully explore the execution space of new games and defend this take, or draw a clear line where the genre changed. I had some muddled ideas about buffer systems I couldn't really defend or incorporate well. Honestly, the section above ended up being a distilled version of most of what I wanted to say. At least some of this article was just me wanting to convey my internal aesthetic view of MvC2 Magneto—imo, the coolest character in the history of fighting games