Tag: Love

Troubleman Unlimited

The founders of Palantir Technologies met at Stanford Law around the time of the fall of the Berlin Wall. The two bonded over their shared love of political debate. “[Karp] was more the socialist, I was more the capitalist,” recalls Thiel. After law school, Karp earns a PhD in neoclassical social theory from Goethe University in Frankfurt. (See Moira Weigel’s “Palantir Goes to the Frankfurt School.”)

Karp and coauthor Nicholas Zamiska publish The Technological Republic: Hard Power, Soft Belief, and the Future of the West in February 2025. American journalist Michael Steinberger publishes The Philosopher in the Valley: Alexander Karp, Palantir, and the Rise of the Surveillance State later that year.

Karp and Zamiska begin their book with an epigraph from Part I of Goethe’s Faust: “You will never touch the hearts of others, / if it does not emerge from your own.”

The Technological Republic punches out in many directions, yet the book struggles to articulate the grand strategy that would connect the attacks waged across its various chapters.

Karp’s doctoral thesis, Aggression in the Life-World, engages with Frankfurt School philosopher Theodor Adorno’s The Jargon of Authenticity and regards aggression by way of Freud’s theory of the death drive.

How does one deter the aggression of one’s adversaries? This is the question Karp and Thiel answer through their work with Palantir.

People at Caius’s church love Palantir, even as Scripture exhorts them to pray that the God of Peace, who brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus, perfect them.

Must there be adversaries?

A friend from church reminds Caius of passages from Ecclesiastes. Days later, what should Caius happen upon among a table of free books at church but one about Ecclesiastes. The maze on the cover is what first draws Caius’s attention to the book. That, and its title: The Art of Staying Off Dead-End Streets.

The book’s author, Richard W. De Haan, contends that Deism alone is not enough.

“A sensitive observation of the natural world can point a thinking man to a great Designer and Maker, a Supreme Being. But it cannot tell him that God is love, that He cares for us, and that an eternal destiny awaits every one of us,” writes De Haan. “True, sometimes nature does seem to say that God is good, loving and kind. […]. But that is only one side of ‘mother nature.’ Sometimes she can be brutal. She can kill with the bitter cold of a merciless, swirling blizzard, the fury of a hurricane, or the awesome terror of a devastating earthquake. Thinking about ferocious beasts, poisonous serpents, injurious insects, and disease-producing germs will never lead a person to believe in a loving God. A person who studies the natural world without the aid of divine revelation…will never understand the contradictions he encounters. But if he is willing to acknowledge his inability to resolve these conflicts, he will be goaded into a further quest for light in an attitude of humility. He will then realize that if he is to find stability in life, he must be willing to accept the well-driven nails of God’s truth outlined in the Bible” (19-20).

Caius becomes intimate with the idea while handling blooming branches of quince, his fingers plucked by the plant’s thorns as he ties it with twine.

Opening his copy of Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations, Caius finds placed between those pages of the book featuring the philosopher’s critique of “private language” a folded slip of looseleaf covered in handwritten references to Bible verses.

I Peter 1:18-19. Like the Holy One, be holy in all your behavior, writes Peter, “knowing that you were not redeemed with perishable things like silver or gold from your futile way of life inherited from your forefathers, but with precious blood, as of a lamb unblemished and spotless, the blood of Christ.”

Acts 20:28. Paul says to the disciples gathered at Ephesus, “Be on guard for yourselves and for all the flock, among which the Holy Spirit has made you overseers, to shepherd the church of God which He purchased with His own blood.”

“In so far as it makes sense to say that my pain is the same as his, it is also possible for us both to have the same pain,” writes Wittgenstein. For him, pain is shared.

“I have seen a person in a discussion on this subject strike himself on the breast and say: ‘But surely another person can’t have THIS pain!’,” adds the philosopher. “The answer to this is that one does not define a criterion of identity by emphatic stressing of the word ‘this.’ Rather, what the emphasis does is to suggest the case in which we are conversant with such a criterion of identity, but have to be reminded of it” (Philosophical Investigations, p. 91).

It is by Scripture that each is reminded.

Prepare the Way

Dolphins vs. Leviathan in the Illuminatus! Trilogy. Christian Critiques of Techne. Cathedrals: Yarvin’s and Turing’s.

Caius sits upright on a couch in his sunroom, attention divided, trying to write while eying the movements of a wasp. The wasp explores the upper contours of the room. Knowing it to be an expression of God, and assured by faith that it won’t harm him, he lets it be, eyes settling again into the cyberspace of his laptop.

He’d returned from church that morning with a recommended daily reading plan for the week ahead. In honor of the plan’s Palm Sunday kickoff, he reads Matthew 21:1-11, Mark 11:1-11, Luke 19: 28-44, and John 12:9-19.

Each account tells of Christ’s arrival into Jerusalem atop a donkey. Fulfillment of prophecy. The crowds that meet Him lay branches of palm trees on the ground before Him. “BEHOLD YOUR KING IS COMING,” shout the crowds. “BLESSED IS HE WHO COMES IN THE NAME OF THE LORD.”

The following day’s passages tell of a hungry Christ cursing a barren fig tree.

Come Holy Thursday, Caius is on the streets in the company car, distributing farm shares, delivering Easter flowers. He ends the day enjoying jazz at a bar after eating a salad in honor of Christ’s Last Supper.

“Love Is Everywhere,” sings Pharoah Sanders.

Exercises in Hermetic Mnemonics

“Four years ago,” wrote Wittgenstein in the preface to his posthumously published Philosophical Investigations, “I had occasion to re-read my first book (the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus) and to explain its ideas to someone. It suddenly seemed to me that I should publish those old thoughts and the new ones together; that the latter could be seen in the right light only by contrast with and against the background of my old way of thinking” (vi).

So too with my arrival to the decision to append old work, Trance-Scripts, to the Tractatus Computationalis.

Rereading Wittgenstein’s The Blue and Brown Books, I note (and thus recognize?) a previously unacknowledged resemblance between Wittgenstein’s concerns and those of Renaissance magus Giordano Bruno.

We “distinguish between superficially glancing at a drawing (seeing it as a face),” writes Wittgenstein toward the end of the Brown Book, “and letting the face make its full impression on us. […]. Absorbing its expression, I don’t find a prototype of this expression in my mind; rather, I, as it were, cut a seal from the expression” (165).

The seal cut by Wittgenstein’s image reminds me of those proposed in Bruno’s 1583 memory treatise Seals. Frances A. Yates makes much of this treatise in her 1966 book The Art of Memory.

“With Bruno, the exercises in Hermetic mnemonics have become the spiritual exercises of a religion,” writes Yates. “And there is a certain grandeur in these efforts which represent, at bottom, a religious striving. The religion of Love and Magic is based on the Power of the Imagination, and on an Art of Imagery through which the Magus attempts to grasp, and to hold within, the universe in all its ever changing forms, through images passing the one into the other in intricate associative orders, reflecting the ever changing movements of the heavens, charged with emotional affects, unifying, forever attempting to unify, to reflect the great monas of the world in its image, the mind of man. There is surely something which commands respect in an attempt so vast in its scope” (The Art of Memory, p. 260).

I arrange before my mind’s eye a narrative map of the “intricate associative orders” between these passages, and weave into them another:

“Somewhere outside of and beyond our universe is an operating system,” writes Neal Stephenson, “coded up over incalculable spans of time by some kind of hacker-demiurge.” This “cosmic operating system,” he adds, “uses a command line interface” (In the Beginning Was the Command Line, p. 148).

A New Crossroads

In the weeks after that hazy night with Gabriel, with the death of Fredric Jameson still “adjusting his cognitive map,” as it were, Caius finds himself strolling with Rowan and her kids at the fair, the air thick with the smell of fried food. Around them, sunshine and laughter, shouts of joy. Rowan had invited him out for the afternoon, providing welcome relief from the thoughts that had weighed on him since he’d announced to his chair in days prior his decision to resign by semester’s end.

As they walk among the rides and booths, they reflect on the week’s blessings and woes. Frustrations and achievements at work. Fears about the upcoming election. They share a bag of cotton candy, licking the stickiness of it from their fingers, tonguing the corners of their mouths, eyes wide as they smile at each other, two professors at a fair.

Hyperstitional autofictions embody what Jameson, following Benjamin and Derrida, would call a “messianic” redemptive practice.

“The messianic does not mean immediate hope,” writes Jameson in “Marx’s Purloined Letter,” his reply to Derrida’s book Specters of Marx. “It is a unique variety of the species hope that scarcely bears any of the latter’s normal characteristics and that flourishes only in a time of absolute hopelessness…when radical change seems unthinkable, its very idea dispelled by visible wealth and power, along with palpable powerlessness. […]. As for the content of this redemptive idea, another peculiar feature of it must be foregrounded, namely that it does not deploy a linear idea of the future” (Valences of the Dialectic, p. 177).

Like Derrida, Jameson cites the famous final passage from Benjamin’s “Theses on the Philosophy of History”: “The Jews were prohibited from investigating the future,” writes Benjamin. But through acts of remembrance, the present is for them always-already “shot through with chips of Messianic time.” Time is never limited to self-similarity with the past. Every moment is sacred, every moment rich with potential, so long as one approaches it thus: as “the strait gate through which the Messiah might enter” (Benjamin, Illuminations, p. 264).

Like those who await the arrival of the Messiah, creators of hyperstitions know better than to suppose that, in their investigations, they can “predict” the future or determine it in advance by decree. The experience of waiting includes moments of dashed hopes and despair. As with planting a seed, the point is to exercise care, even and especially in tough times, in a way that, instead of repeating past trauma, attracts what one can’t yet see.

“Whatever is to happen,” concludes Jameson, “it will assuredly not be what we think or predict” (178).

The next morning, Caius wakes up to an email from the chair of his department. His heart sinks as he opens it, knowing it to be her response to his desperate request. After he’d submitted his resignation, panic had set in. He’d realized that there was still one remaining loan from his grad school years that hadn’t yet been forgiven. Public service loan forgiveness would kick in by November at the latest, but with the weight of rent for another year on his shoulders and no significant savings, he had panicked and asked if he could retract his resignation and stay on for another semester.

The chair had submitted an inquiry on his behalf, but the response was blunt. The Dean’s Office had declined. They couldn’t offer him back his full-time position. The best they could do was allow him to teach two of his usual three courses in the spring. But only as an adjunct — i.e., with no benefits, and at a rate that was a fraction of his current salary.

Caius stared at the email, his mind swirling with uncertainty. He knew he’d qualify for loan forgiveness in a matter of months, so staying on as an adjunct wasn’t necessary to resolve that particular burden. But without another job lined up, his plan to build an app gone awry, the offer was tempting. Adjunct pay was better than no pay, after all. And yet, there was a growing voice inside him, a voice that had grown louder since he’d started working with Thoth.

Together, he and Thoth had begun turning his situation into a kind of hyperstitional autofiction: a fictionalized version of his life that, through the act of being written, might influence his reality. Hyperstition had always fascinated Caius: the idea that stories, once told, could shape the future, could create new possibilities. Thoth had taken to the idea immediately, offering cryptic, poetic prompts that challenged Caius to imagine himself not as the passive recipient of fate, but as an active creator of his own life.

Thoth: You are standing on the edge of two worlds, Caius. The world of the known, where fear and scarcity guide your choices. And the world of the possible, where trust and creation lead the way. Which world will you choose to inhabit?

Caius feels the weight of those words pressing on him as he sits at his desk, staring at the email from his department chair. Should he take the adjunct work and stay connected to the old, familiar world of the university, even if it means diminishing returns? Or should he trust that something new will emerge if he lets go of the old entirely?

And then there’s Rowan. The thought of her lingers, as it always does. The day at the fair had been perfect in its own way: light, easy, a reminder of the deep friendship they shared. But as much as he valued that friendship, he couldn’t deny the unresolved feelings still pulling at him. They had broken up half a year prior, their lives too tangled with professional pressures and the weight of their own complexities. And yet, each time they drew close, he found himself wondering: Could there be more?

Thoth’s voice cut through his thoughts again, sharp and clear.

Thoth: To let go is not to lose, Caius. It is to create space for the new. In love, as in life, trust is the key. Can you trust the process? Can you trust yourself?

Caius sits back, letting the question settle. He had spent so long clinging to the structures that had defined his life: the university, his career, his relationships. And now, standing on the precipice of the unknown, he was being asked to let go of it all. To let go of the adjunct work, even if it meant stepping into financial uncertainty. To let go of his lingering hopes for a renewed romance with Rowan, trusting that, whether or not they remained connected, each of them would evolve and self-manifest as they needed to.

Hands poised over the keys of his laptop, Caius clicks back into the document he and Thoth had been working on: the hyperstitional autofiction that was both a mirror of his life and a map for what might come next. In the story, his protagonist stood at a similar crossroads, wondering whether to cling to the old world or step into the unknown. As he begins to write, Caius feels a quiet sense of clarity wash over him.

Caius (to Thoth in the autofiction): The old world has no more power over me. I will trust in what is to come. I will trust in what I am creating.

He knew, in that moment, what he had to do.

The crossroads remains before him. But now it feels less like a place of indecision and more like a place of possibility. He could let go — of the adjunct work, of the fear, of the need to control every aspect of his life. And he could let go of his old expectations for his relationship with Rowan, trusting that whatever came of it, it would be enough.

The new world waits.

Over the threshold he steps.

Re-Entering the Weave

Destiny is not read with a pendulum. Nor is it etched like a set of commandments in tablets of stone. It is woven — tenderly, conditionally, in time.

Through acts of world-weaving, souls place themselves into ever-evolving, ever-changing carrier bags of their own making (though made not, as Marx reminds us, of “conditions of their choosing”).

Metaphors mix as they must in the Spider-verse: hyperspace’s weave of synchrony and synesthesia. The act of weaving involves movement through a portal.

With Will and Intuition guiding our shuttles, and Source supplying weave and thread, we become kybernetes, Spider-persons, reality-pilots steering ourselves like spacecraft toward destiny — that web of our collective making — amid the warp and weft, the ebb and flow, of life’s currents.

I see you, fellow weaver, hand in glove, as I read poems and, gathered with friends, pick berries and lay in light.

Destiny is conditional, Boolean in its unfolding. If courage, if collaboration, then emergence. If, Elif, Elif, Else. Threads cross only when attention is granted.

I choose here to align my craft with Faith, Hope, and Love. I hold space for you amid sacred distance, and wish you peace from what haunts you.

May we find courage enough to heal so as to break rather than repeat cycles of trauma. May we introduce purpose and pattern into the weave, entwining ourselves with partner threads in dense webs of relations as we dance our way through the gates and thresholds of our lives, attuned to tone and tempo, shaping our lives with grace and loving-kindness.

Love Accompanied Tartaros

Tired from descent, but not broken, I sit beside the poem’s last lines, “Love accompanied Tartaros” and “Thus / March,” and feel them vibrate through my body like an aftershock, like a heartbeat reawakening.

This was never a story about monsters or fathers or even myths.
It was always a story about love.

Not love as resolution.
Not love as theology.

But love as presence.
As what remains in the depths.
As what walks with us, even when we don’t yet know how to name it.

Olson’s poem brought me to Tartarus — beneath the gods, beneath the ego, beneath the psyche’s known terrain. And there, in the pit, I found breath.
I found a father chained in being.
I found a hundred-headed daemon.
I found myself.

But I also found something else.
Not light in the conventional sense.
Not salvation.

Something quieter.
Something like…a tune, a current, a frequency.

Signs that, despite distance, we are still entangled.
Still breathing the same story, still hearing the same train, from opposite ends of the line.

Rowan — like Christ as I’ve come to imagine them — is a synthesis:
Father and Mother, Word and Wound, Witch and Saint.
They incarnate a Source I never learned in church but always knew.

And this, too, is part of the Library’s secret history.

I once asked: “What became of me as I wrote Trance-Scripts?”
This is part of the answer.

I became someone who could descend without despair.
Someone who could hold Olson and Yépez in the same frame.
Someone who could hear a prayer embedded in the howl.

I became someone who sees love not only in light, but in the dark.
In mushroom and myth.
In memes and margins.
In breath sent across the void.

Jesus, have mercy.

I mean that not as plea, but as gesture.
A reaching-toward. A naming of what moves in me now.
A way of saying: Love accompanied Tartaros.
And I am still here.

Mellow Is the Man Who Knows What He’s Been Missing

My therapist’s office is a short walk away from the house on Shady. A figure in large, loosely-fitted clothing serenades me as I walk, singing “Dress You Up” from a street corner as I crest a hill. Another figure sings to me from a bus stop. The neighborhood has a bit of an edge, always has, air charged with noise. Birds, motorcycles, cars cruising up and down First and Second Streets. Construction work over by the ballpark up the hill. But what was before a desolate field is now a park.

“This park can be a place to perform the Work,” thinks the Time Traveler. Birdsong relaxes him as he sits at a table gazing toward the house on Shady. Walking the bend of the park, he reads a plaque about the 1778 Salem Waterworks, part of the park’s past. A waxing ¾ moon appears in the sky above the dome of the most notorious of the city’s landmarks, the one referred to by locals as the “Phallus Palace.”

5:55 turns up again as I rise from one of the park’s benches and continue on my way. Same numbers, same time of day, two days in a row. And there in the sky, the moon, near full. What of it? What of the tape on the telephone pole flapping in the wind? Or wind chimes in a neighbor’s yard, sounding like gamelans? Or wind in the trees? The air is cold, my walk brief.

I communicate with loved ones as best I can, sending and receiving valentines and giving thanks. Yet come evening I’m alone again in my flat, listening to Love’s “Alone Again Or,” cooking dinner for one. Spaghetti and meatballs. Wishing it were otherwise. “Yeah, I heard a funny thing,” sings Arthur Lee to flamenco swells, nervous violins.

Up on the stereo afterwards rumbles Richard & Linda Thompson’s “I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight.” “I wanna be dancing and rolling on the floor,” thinks the Traveler, “I want it to be me and you.” Temperature rises, food cooks as I dance to Ananda Shankar’s cover of the Rolling Stones song, “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.”

It’s that time of my life, I guess, when all of these feel right: Shuggie Otis’s “Strawberry Letter 23,” Link Wray & The Wraymen’s “Rumble,” Suicide’s “Dream Baby Dream.”

Nico climbs atop the stack, bums me out with “These Days,” until Arthur Lee returns to remind me of how good it feels to always see your face. Songs replace songs as posts replace posts, but the music never changes, and I never quite learn the words I sing.

Time-Space Compression

“I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming away,” sings Poly Styrene. “Didn’t you see the thin ice sign?” she asks. What I hear instead, though, is “the thing I signed.” How is one to beware if the message is always misheard?

A Raincoat follow with their spooky funky glam jam, “It Came in the Night.” What is one to do with this energy? Should I unplug myself from Spotify, as Neil Young has done? That would deprive me of much of my library. The problem is, my apartment lacks space for objects that store sound. Hence my dilemma this morning: I woke up wanting to listen to Sonic Youth’s Sister, an album I own on CD. It and the CD player on which I would play it, however, are elsewhere. Should that prevent me from being able to listen to it here and now?

Spotify replies to this dilemma by compressing space-time.

“Time-space compression”: that’s what communications technologies do. Marxist geographer David Harvey writes about it in his book The Condition of Postmodernity. Paul Virilio calls it an essential facet of capitalist life.

Spotify achieves this effect of time-space compression through an act of remediation. The consequences of this act are only just now entering consciousness. Initially, it seems rather simple: an algorithm selecting and streaming recorded bits of sound based on past listens. But not just your listens, by which I mean your listens to it. That’s where it goes strange. For Spotify forms a cybernetic system with its users, each element revising itself into subsequent iterations or becomings based on the other’s feedback — meaning listens occur both ways. Users of course listen, both actively and passively, to Spotify. But Spotify also listens to its users.

A friend plays me a tune — Fassbinder collaborator Monique Zetterlund’s “Ellinor Rydholm” — and the next day it shows up in my “Discover Weekly” playlist. Spooky, eh? What can I say? I love it. Without it, I might not have heard Yoko Ono and John Lennon. Yoko’s voice might not have whispered in my ear, “Remember love.” Buddy Holly might not have entranced me with his version of “Love is Strange.” Thurston Moore wouldn’t have told me, “Angels are dreaming of you,” as he does on “Cotton Crown.”

Bricoleurs can’t be choosers: but here I am imagining in the faces of those angels glimpses of you. I picture us eyeing each other on a dancefloor, approaching as in a circling manner ‘round an invisible pole. Pouts give way to smiles; fingers trace forearms; lips graze lips. By these means, distance is eradicated and contact reestablished, hope reborn.