 Have you ever wondered why some decisions feel automatic, while others take more effort? It all comes down to what I call the ‘default intuitive model.’ This is the mental software running in the background, making sense of our experiences and guiding our reactions before conscious thought kicks in. Today, I’ll explore how this model works, its strengths and flaws, and what happens when we examine it more deeply. As I mentioned previously when talking about the divided self, there are different levels to consciousness: some parts are instinctual and automatic, while others are calculating and controlled. The default intuitive model operates on a level that’s faster and more fundamental than the willful, conscious observer. The model supplies the base assumptions about the world, and any conscious thought is built using the model’s innate viewpoint. The way we make our decisions and the way we learn from the world comes from finding patterns in the information that our sense organs receive. The information runs through the model’s program, and the automatic reaction of our bodies is the result. For example, I can tell when food will be delicious, even if it's a meal I’ve never had, due to the brain’s ability to predict and recognize objects and sensations in my past. I’ve had enough good meals where I can associate the sights and smells of food with their flavor. I don’t need to calculate the pros and cons of a meal in order to like it, my default intuition does a fine job of making the experience obvious, even before conscious reason has a chance to analyze it. Recognition of repeated patterns is the root of this process. The more consistently an experience can be predicted, the more it cements itself within the model’s categorization system. Once a group of experiences links strongly enough with a certain outcome, it can be treated as a predictable “thing” instead of just as chance or chaos. For example, most of the time eating random objects is unpleasant or dangerous. Of all the world’s detritus, only the objects coded as “food” are fit for consumption. You can see this at play in babies: they don’t have the consistency of experience necessary to make this distinction, so they will happily stuff their mouths with anything in arms reach.  Unambiguous Truth The model’s role is to generate basic assumptions and to let the conscious observer come to conclusions based on the information it provides. When providing the foundation for higher cognitive processes, the default intuitive model strives to build its framework using unambiguous truths. If the model’s initial assumptions are muddy or unclear, then even the most clever insights or reasoning that arise from them will have fundamental flaws or doubts at its core. Therefore, the model’s value system prioritizes objects and concepts that can be conceptualized cleanly, with as little messiness as possible. In other words, the default intuitive model likes its information to be tidy. It prefers clarity, cleanliness, and consistency. It is an information processing algorithm that feeds our higher processes its interpretation of reality, and it does so by calculating in terms of black and white, or good and evil. The model has an aversion to things with blurry boundaries or things that change over time, and would rather deal with binary calculations and see things in terms of ‘yes’ and ‘no’.  Comic adapted from robotatertot For another perspective on tidy or clean information, consider Aristotle’s first principles, which preach a particular brand of permanence and consistency. These principles are designed to measure truth and falsehood, with a mission to build a system from unambiguously “true” statements. To that end, the principles seek to measure something’s permanence and consistency for the sake of finding binary units of trustworthy information. These units of information ideally follow three laws:
Despite the goal of finding perfect, unambiguous truth, the real world doesn’t work that way. Perfect information is a very abstract concept, and the real world is filled with nuance and complexity. Our default intuition unconsciously strives for information that will satisfy these laws, but the model is not without flaws. Blob Theory starts where the default intuitive model leaves off. By challenging its preference for polarized, binary truth, Blob Theory offers a new lens to examine the complexities of reality. The conclusions drawn by our default intuition are useful shortcuts, but they aren’t the truest or most accurate way to see the world. Next week I’d like to go more in depth on how the default intuitive model sorts the raw chaos of reality into names, units and categories, and how dangerous it can be to trust this simplified representation of reality. In this section and the sections to come I expect that many ideas might seem unintuitive or poorly explained, so let me know in the comments (or by direct message) if you notice parts that could do with better examples or clearer explanation. This episode is focused on the terminology I use in my theories. For broader context, see my website, or follow the specific links embedded in the article. I’m moving Blob Theory (my personal system and philosophy) to Substack! My current focus is on contradictions in consciousness, which I’ve found very impactful on my relationships as well as my creative projects like 'Fall Creek.' I’m doing my best to share the theory itself as clearly as I can, but I depend heavily on feedback so please share any and all reactions you might have to this work.
When I talk about Blob Theory, I often make reference to an internal conscious observer, a force within you that is tasked with judging or assessing the moments of your life. The observer watches to see the quality of your environment and your actions, and it provides conscious guidance to mold your physical behavior. You can think of it as a system connected to your willpower: it might observe and learn that exercise is good for you, and it might compel you to do it more. Obviously, it’s not guaranteed to get its way, but it very much feels like “you” in the sense that it is linked to your identity. A disconnection between the observer’s ideal world and the actions of your body likely feels like a failure of willpower. There are moments that can exist free from this observer, such as in moments of flow or in meditation, but most of the time the observer is present. Even if it briefly disappears in moments of full engagement like a good meal or your favorite activity, it returns the moment you make plans, reflect on the past, or wish that things were better than they are. The observer is a creature of comparison, something that creates virtual scenarios and compares the present moment to some idealized state. It makes its judgments and justifications to compel the body to its will, generally using the tools of reason and logic. These tools have been acknowledged and debated for thousands of years, forming the worldview that you and I share with the modern world. My favorite documentation of logic and reason comes in the form of the laws of thought, a set of logical axioms in Aristotle's “metaphysics”. The laws themselves have been touched on and reinterpreted by every generation of great thinkers in western academia since its inception. The system that arises from these laws is currently the foundation for computing and modern science, and is instrumental for categorizing, quantifying, and processing information. The laws also imply a world with very specific metaphysical characteristics, such as the feeling that we live in a world made of physical objects that consist of substances with varying properties. It might seem absurd to question this obvious intuitive fact, but eastern worldviews such as Taoism explicitly reject this category-based conceptualization of reality. It seems intuitive to us due to the laws of thought composing the DNA of our culture, and because our most basic cognitive systems are quick to make assumptions that align with this model due to the ease of processing quantifiable, unambiguous information. Still, it's important to note that it is not an objectively true, all-encompassing model. The issue with the model is that it bases itself on an unequivocal condemnation of contradiction. It’s a powerful model and a useful tool, but it itself is ill-suited to describe consciousness, which is filled with contradiction. Despite feeling like I have a consistent identity, there is undeniable evidence that the mind exists as a divided self. Whether it be Freud’s model of ‘conscious vs unconscious’ or Kahneman’s description of ‘system 1 and system 2’, there is a clear division of contradictory motivations or desires within each of us. There is a part inside us that wants good things now, and there is another part that wants better things later. These contradictions might seem innocuous, but they serve as clear examples of where the default intuitive model’s logic can’t be applied. I prefer to talk about this division of selves by referencing the internal conscious observer and relating it with the self in the moment that acts independently of free will. I prefer this specific terminology because I use it within a system that runs contrary to the laws of thought and contrary to the default intuitive model. Blob Theory is, after all, a system that is meant to understand contradiction and paradox more deeply. But Ruben, who cares about these contradictions in consciousness! Is there any use in poking and prodding the paradoxes of our foundational systems? The next issue will explore the weak points of the default intuitive model more deeply, especially the idea of an “indivisible unit”, as implied from the laws of thought. In the issue, I’ll apply the laws and extrapolate three implied truths about the world: objects don’t decay, they have clean edges and boundaries, and they interact with each other in predictable ways. These implied truths aren’t actually true, but they shape the way our intuition works and control our automatic reactions to things. Introduction: Contradictory Selves
Last week I brought up the idea that to be human is to contain multitudes, and I suggested that the concept of “contradiction” is an intrinsic part of experiencing life. In the Blob Theory framework, I operate under the assumption that each of us has a divided self, and that these divisions are clusters of opposing forces that exist at odds with each other. This might go contrary to your intuition that life or consciousness works as a unified whole, but let me explain my reasoning about making the distinction between the unified self and the divided self. Aliveness itself feels a lot like one consistent experience. In addition to feeling alive right now, I also feel like I existed yesterday, last month, and last year. I feel like I am fundamentally the same “me” as I was when I was born, and that this same “me” will die at the end of my life. There is one consistent thread of life that I am experiencing, and I only get to directly experience my own life. I can’t see inside the heads of anyone else but myself: other people are other people, and there is a clear boundary on the edge of my consciousness where my experience ends. These are all facts that work seamlessly with the normal western default intuitive model of reality. It resonates with Aristotle’s Laws of Thought and it comes with associations of permanence and identity. In the default intuitive model, reality exists by virtue of its consistency, and contradictions are signs of falsehood or lack of reason. That being said, it takes only a few moments of self-inspection to see how there are conflicting motivations or desires that exist within you. These conflicts can be described as internal divisions, where some sections oppose their counterparts. There might be a part within you that desires to go to sleep at a certain hour, and another part that actually executes the sleeping process, independent of any conscious decision. Which part represents the “true you”? Are you the planner of things or are you the doer of things? You might identify more strongly with the planner, the visualizer, the one responsible for your future self. This would mean you spend your time and your effort primarily on tomorrow’s happiness. Or perhaps you identify more closely with the doer, the “you” who lives in the moment and who executes all your actions. Maybe you see yourself as some complex blend of the two, something simply inarticulable, an entity without categories. Regardless of the style of division, you exist as a being with contradiction in your motives or desires. Historical Example - Freud There are many popular models of dividing the self. One historically influential system is Freud’s proposition of using the Id, the Ego, and the Superego as a categorization system to describe three different patterns of thought and behavior. Ego is the only of those words still commonly used today, meaning something like the “selfish self”, but the original model described a system with three competing actors. The three components work together in a framework that sees the self as a mixture of conscious and unconscious thought, and that conscious thought and willpower is just a small portion of the overall mind. Therefore, in the model, unconscious motives exist within us, often contrary to our deliberate intentions, and often exist as invisible to our internal conscious observer. In this strategy of dividing the self, the model gives identities to the three entities that fight in the battlefield of conscious and unconscious thought. The Id is the instinctual, automatic, animal drive that fights for survival and longs for pleasure. The Ego is the rational, conscious mediator that feels like it’s in the driver’s seat. It functions differently than the popular understanding of the word, but both versions of the word are closely associated with personal identity. Finally, the Superego is the value system and moral instinct that guides you. Each of these three divisions has its own motives and goals, and the efforts of each one often conflict with each other. Without all the lingo, it can be described as the animal within you being in conflict with the divine within you, and it’s up to the rational mediator to navigate this balance. The themes of these ideas can be traced back to Plato, but I’d like to highlight Freud’s model as the prime example of a formal, rigorous division of the self. Modern Example - Brain Structure The divided self can also be described in material terms, by correlating patterns of behavior with different sections of the brain. Our contradictions can be traced back in our evolutionary lineage, as evidenced by the degree of shared brain structure with other kinds of life. The evolutionary starting point of our brain is the part we share with all other vertebrates, formed hundreds of millions of years ago. These early structures are the so-called “lizard brain” that was good enough to keep our ancestors alive and reproducing for so many generations. This part of the brain is associated with things that are extremely automatic, things that require no conscious control. Your heart will keep beating even if you try using all your willpower to stop it. Breathing is generally done automatically, but you can temporarily breathe consciously if you focus hard enough. As we evolved, layers expanded outwards and our shapes grew distinct from our cold blooded brethren. The newer brain bits, the parts that we share with mammals, are more closely connected to emotional processing, social bonding, and predicting rewards. This so-called “limbic system” is still hundreds of millions of years old, and it's mostly coded as unconscious thought, and seemingly akin to the animal instinct we share with similar life forms. If you compared the brain structures to Freud’s model, you could say that these ancient brains are more closely related to the “id”. Only the newest bits are unique to primates, and the newest newest bits specific to humans. The prefrontal cortex (PFC), which is the outermost surface that developed a quarter-million years ago, is the part responsible for thinking, planning, and personality. If I were forced to describe the part of the brain that I most closely identify with, it would have to be with the PFC. It’s closely correlated with all of the qualities that I (and most other people) associate with selfhood and identity. I don’t identify very much with the way I breathe, or the way my body automatically moves, but instead I identify with my thoughts, my plans, my intentions, my feelings. These ego-related qualities can be consistently correlated with the role of the PFC. The PFC, the freshly-grown outermost layer of the brain, has its neurons so closely coiled and folded that they process incredible amounts of information, with the PFC representing an intensely interconnected network of pathways and channels that can relay electric current throughout the brain. Still, the PFC does not exactly have control over the brain. It’s not the body’s sole authority. Each of the brain’s divisions plays its role, and the motives of logic and reason are ineffectual to the raw truths of hunger and pain. The behaviorally divided self can be delineated according to these physical brain structures, with behavioral issues labeled according to their appropriate brain structure. Conflict and contradiction can be described by terms such as “impulse control” (PFC) or “emotional urges” (the limbic system) and can be explained and justified by the role that the brain structures evolutionarily took. The divided self within Blob Theory Blob theory challenges the notion of fixed categories and boundaries, so I use the divided self as an accessible way to observe contradictions first-hand. Despite the default assumption that you are a consistent, coherent individual, life is filled with constant tiny conflicts of interest. The conflict is clear when you turn down a tasty treat in the name of health, or when you can’t help but find a married friend attractive. We all have inner voices that advocate for the present moment as well as for future consequences, and the two voices are constantly at odds. The modern western worldview has “right and wrong” or “true and false” baked into its conceptual DNA. Attempts to justify or explain the apparent contradiction within us results in rules and divisions, organized laws that describe the nature of the conflict. Western models and standards invariably favor clear, absolute units of measurement. Next week I will introduce their counterpart, a Blob unit of measurement that describes contradictory information more accurately than the default model. Next week I’ll also be switching to Substack! Hopefully you’ve been enjoying and understanding this series of writing. I will start the Substack emails with a recap of these first five writings, and a summary of the key terms I expect to use to describe the workings of Blob Theory. With the introduction of Blob units, the theory will become more concrete and hopefully my arguments will become clear. What other arguments have you heard for a divided self? Have you noticed your own internal divisions? Please let me know in the comments or by direct message! Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.) -Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself” In 9th grade, my friends and I loved playing video games after school. Our acid-loving hippie art teacher didn’t mind us taking over the “Mac Lab” computers and playing Warcraft 3 directly from our USB drives. I sunk as many hours into these game sessions as I could, happy to find an arena that I excelled in. Computers were limited, and the losers were kicked off so I could keep my spot as long as I played well. My last class was right by the Mac Lab so I always rushed to snag one of the first spots and then hold on as many rounds as I could. The crowd usually thinned out once the buses left, but some of my friends would stay glued to the screens and “study late at school” as an excuse to take the late bus home instead. Instead of the bus, my parents would pick me up so I had to keep a watchful eye on the clock and scurry over to the car when my time was up. It was impossible to tear myself from a really good match, so I’d often be a few minutes late as I wrapped up one last game before going home. They didn’t know my increasing tardiness was due to a gaming addiction, they imagined I was just doing normal wholesome afterschool activities with my nerdy buddies. Eventually, the inevitable occurred. I lost myself too deeply in the game, I disconnected from my sense of time, and my conscious observer neglected to remind me to go home. The late bus kids started packing up and I was slowly filled by a pit of dread as I realized what had happened. I wasn’t just late, I was giga-late. I sprinted over to the pickup zone, and my mom was parked, fuming. “Where the hell were you?” “Sorry, I lost track of time.” “Lost track of time doing what?” I panicked. I didn’t want to ruin my image of being the perfect son. I went with the excuse my late bus friends always stuck with. “I was in the library, studying.” “Oh, the library, you say?” She said no, I was not in the library because she was just in the library, she could see with her eyes that I was not there, and that the librarian said I had not been by. I was cooked. Nausea flooded my chest - what could I say to that? I was caught in a contradiction, a falsehood. I wanted her to know that I didn’t mean to lie, that I didn’t mean to be late, that I accidentally ceased to exist for a bit too long and it wasn’t really my fault. Despite this whirlwind of thoughts, shame silenced me as she lectured about honesty and trust. My anguish was automatic, instinctual. I didn’t need to understand Aristotle’s models of contradiction and logic to feel this pain. My intuitive response to lying and falsehood has been forming itself automatically since birth, with the sum of my experiences and observations all reinforcing the wrongness associated with deception or contradiction. The incident had eroded away at my integrity, and my mother was there to bear witness. I felt the shame of lying, but I simultaneously felt the insistent sensation that it was somehow not my fault. I only accidentally claimed to be in the library, it didn’t feel like something that intentionally came out of my mouth. I shouldn’t have to bear the blame for whatever strange impulse overcame me in the moments of awkward confrontation. I said nothing about it because it’s a nonsensical sensation: I obviously should be accountable for my lie, but the feeling of faultlessness seemed so clear and true. My actions in the moment simply didn’t feel like it was done by my deep-down true self. In time, I began to see moments like these as clues to a deeper truth. These experiences with contradiction planted the seeds for what would become Blob Theory, my attempt to find coherence in the paradoxes of human behavior. The automatic reaction of my body did not feel like the same person as the conscious, willful thinker. It seemed like there were parts of me that were at odds with each other, an incongruent disjointed jumble of selves that only pretended to exist as one cohesive singular entity. This disquieting thought stuck with me, black ink that slowly seeped into the folds of my brain, a fundamental acknowledgement of some basic flaw in perception itself. The more I tried to resolve it, the more the ink spread and smudged the structures of my worldview. I had a growing uncomfortable awareness that maybe a deep-down true self doesn’t even exist, that maybe a cohesive singular entity is impossible, that maybe contradiction is the default state of the universe and that Aristotle’s laws of thought are bullshit. It would be over a decade before I found a way to put these insights into writing, and several years more before I could describe a model that captured inconsistencies in my own default intuitive model of reality. Next week, I will explain what I mean by a ‘cohesive singular entity’ and ‘default intuitive model’, and why these concepts challenge our belief in consistency as the cornerstone of reality. The terms themselves work by trusting consistent units with stable identities in the style of Aristotle’s laws of thought, but they themselves are deeply contradictory and don’t operate according to their very own values. When do you notice me contradicting myself? Take this opportunity to call me out on my inconsistencies! Send me a message with your criticisms and observations, I can take it. Last week I talked about flow and wu wei, two ways of describing a state where the conscious observer ceases to exist. Each of these two descriptions has an accompanying framework or value system that connects the ideas to a greater body of work. I’m especially fascinated by the Taoist worldview that supports wu wei because it’s a value system that operates in a way that challenges mainstream western intuition. It espouses many truths that seem contradictory or incompatible with the way that we normally process information in modern society. In Blob Theory, I tie this default model to the Laws of Thought, which are some very old ideas that originated in Greece and have evolved over the past few thousands of years. These laws describe, in as precise a way as possible, the ways that logic or reason can shape and reflect our culture.
The model that follows these laws is connected with many of the core values in western culture and in science, but it doesn't reflect intuition on a universal scale. Other value systems such as Taoism use completely different rules, but I call the model built on the Laws of Thought an 'intuitive' system because it echoes a lot of the ways that things naturally seem to work. I have a unique feeling of what “normal” means to me, a Ruben-specific understanding of what makes sense in my world. This sense of normal results from a combination of shared knowledge, of scientific facts built up over many generations, as well as an implicit indescribable reaction to the environment that can’t be captured with language. These two parts complement each other to form a holistic picture of the way the world is. The shared knowledge can be explicitly represented in the laws of physics or mathematics, or in language by legal codes and government structure. The implicit reaction is just what being alive feels like, what the senses generate through consciousness. My personal feeling of normal is probably very close to your feeling of normal, but it’s not exactly the same. No two people have a perfectly shared version of reality, but we can get a pretty good guess of what objective reality might be like by seeing where the sum of individual points of perspective coincide. The people around me share my sense of normality to a high degree, but this alignment fades the further I look in both time and space. The western world 500 years ago saw things differently than we do today, and other parts of the earth have different stories of reality that tend to differ by geographic location. I can confidently describe our environment as a bacteria-filled world that orbits around the sun, but this only makes sense to my english-speaking peers in the modern age. Other ages or other parts of the world can easily reject this view as incompatible or insignificant when compared to their own explicit sense of normality, even though these hypothetical humans presumably share a very similar implicit indescribable reaction to reality. They would see similarly, hear similarly, think similarly, but have a different story or narrative for the way things work. In the West, our explicit acknowledgement is built on cumulative models that compound on each other. Our models start with foundational truths, which are then polished and refined through generations of observation and experimentation. For example, hundreds of years ago, the world was explained through the lens of alchemy and humors, theories of reality that are invalidated by current standards. Modern models like nuclear physics or endocrinology have proved themselves to be more consistent and applicable in more contexts, and they have successfully replaced the old ideas because they properly follow the expectations of the western value system. These expectations mean that all ideas compete with each other, and the ideas that emerge victorious in the West do so because they comply with the system of first principles that sits at the foot of scientific progress. These first principles, called the Laws of Thought, were originally documented around 2500 years ago, making it a framework roughly as old as Taoism. These laws, originally proposed by Aristotle, describe a framework for making sense of the world at the most basic level. In essence, they establish a preference for statements and information that is concrete, consistent, and non-contradictory. If information is to be treated as logical or reasonable, it must comply with the conditions stated by the laws of thought. The laws are considered self-evident truths, and can be represented as follows:
They provide the structure for the study of formal logic, and have evolved as a principle that supports mathematics, the scientific method, our legal system, and nearly every facet of modern western normality. Their utility comes from the fact that they can be used to infer or extrapolate: if you have a set of statements that satisfy the above conditions, you can draw trustworthy conclusions by using deduction or reasoning. For example, if I am older than my brother but younger than my cousin, then my cousin is older than my brother. This is intuitively obvious, but it’s also an example of the transitive property that arises from statements that follow the three laws. This type of calculation can be very basic, but the most basic bits of information compile and compound upon each other and ultimately culminate in advancements like the computer that I’m currently writing on. The western world is built using these blocks, and they shape our sense of implicit and explicit normality. This makes it very hard to understand a value system that goes against these laws, such as Taoism or other eastern value systems. We place such a high value on concrete concrete logic, so the Taoist emphasis on the ineffable seems like a strange tool for navigating reality. If I were to translate Taoism’s values into a structure that mirrored the laws of thought, it would look something like this:
It might seem difficult to imagine a system that can make calculations using such paradoxical axioms, but this is the starting point for Blob Theory. It’s probably unnatural to think of contradictions as useful, but I use these paradoxes as lenses for understanding complexity - embracing contradiction rather than resolving it. In next week’s writing, I’ll talk about contradiction in greater depth, and how each of us has internal division or contradictions to our personas or our behavior. Do you ever notice what your default intuition is like? Do you trust logic? Do you trust god more? When's a moment when you’ve realized your sense of normal differed from someone else’s? Let me know in the comments or by direct message! This past week, I’ve been working on the final cut of the Fall Creek prototype (version 2.18). This version cements the game’s structure and signals the last round of testing before publication. Final edits are grueling because they rely entirely on the observer. My favorite kind of work is done when I can enter the flow state, a term coined by psychologists in the 80s to describe a certain kind of peak performance. The original studies of flow described a state of effortless activity, where intense focus is combined with a disconnection from conscious thought. In this state, the observer rests and the body automatically executes without any need for deliberation or direction.
It’s easy to enter this state if I’m drawing some art or designing the game’s mechanics. Days can pass like hours if I’m in the rush of it, and I’ve dedicated a great amount of time to understanding how flow relates to my life and my goals. The focus on flow becomes an issue when I have to do work where I’m forced to consciously observe, such as during editing. I have to begrudgingly accept that my goals involve periods of time where I can’t rest the observer, and that committing to the search of flow doesn’t solve my greater goal of ceasing to exist. I can rest in moments of pleasure like food or drugs, I can rest in moments of flowing work, but I can’t rest when I consider the whole big future ahead of me. For a long time, I was content to exist with no conscious cohesion or structure to my activities. I was happy to commit to the flow, to paint or write poems with no intentional cumulative goal. It was easy to cease to exist. Gradually, a restlessness within me grew greater and greater, driven by a helpless acknowledgement of the impending future. The restlessness is addressed by the observer, the entity who calculates plans and simulates futures. The Ruben of today has addressed the future by committing to game design, with a plan of publication that denies the observer its rest. At times it is hard to bring myself to keep executing this plan, but I really must know what happens at the end, to see if it works or not. My plans to publish are written with the laws of Blob Theory, and my curiosity to verify my hypothesis keeps the rest of me marching forward. Blob Theory has been developed and tested during the last two years of game development. Recognizing and maximizing flow was one of the first applications, because I was so charmed by the fact that peak performance can occur in the absence of conscious thought, rather than in the depths of it. As curious as flow is, it’s a rather isolated observation in the sense that it doesn’t connect to any other theories. We know that it’s real because we observe it to be real, but there is no existing system in the West that would expect it to occur in the way that it does. Similarly to how Einstein’s formulas predicted black holes, the best theories are those whose conclusions are evidenced in reality. A good theory of psychology or consciousness should be able to imply the existence of “flow” as predicted by core principles. Such a theory exists in the East. It’s a very old system, with many branches and evolutions, but its history begins with Taoism and it has been documented for at least the last 2500 years. The system itself is hard to formally describe, but it’s basically about living in the moment and harmonizing with nature. The concept most connected to flow is the idea of wu wei, which describes a state of trying not to try. Wu wei means effortlessness and spontaneity, a complete absorption of the moment, an experience disconnected from conscious thought. In both flow and wu wei, the boundary between self and the activity dissolves, and there exists only a fusion with the moment that excludes the conscious observer. Both flow and wu wei are described as ideal states to exist in, but only wu wei has an accompanying ideological framework that connects the qualities of wu wei to the value systems of a particular base model (Taoism). Flow is described in Taoist texts as a justification to practice wu wei, but it was not named and studied in the same way as it has been in modern psychology. There is a certain fundamental incongruence between the values of academia and the Tao, because they exist within different metaphysical frameworks. Western knowledge seeks order through measurement, while Taoism embraces the ineffable and rejects explicit descriptions. Taoist values go contrary to our modern intuitions of substance and reason, for they imply a universe that operates in an entirely different way from how we normally understand it. Flow and wu wei both show us how to navigate life without the observer. Blob Theory extends these insights into a framework that combines Eastern values with modern, practical categorization. Just as the principles of the Tao guide the practitioner to find ideal states of being, so does Blob Theory propose a guide on how to cease to exist. In the next issue, I’ll break down the core axioms of Blob Theory and explore how they shape my approach to goals and decision-making, and how they ultimately offer a blueprint for ceasing to exist. When do you let your observer rest? I’d love to hear moments about when you lose yourself, whether it be through flow, food, meditation, or any other experience. These writings will explore Blob Theory, my personal philosophy on navigating life’s paradoxes. I’ll show the way it works through the lens of my work as a game designer and through my musings as an obsessive introspective artist.
I have a practice of observing myself. There is a corner of my mind that pays attention to the way I write, the way I behave with others, the way I make my decisions. This part of me judges the significance and outcome of my interactions and sets goals and standards for how to follow a life best lived. All of these observations represent guesses about reality, stories of my place in the world and how I come off to others. Even though I do my best to make truthful observations, they spring mysteriously from intuition and they don’t necessarily have any basis in pure hard fact. I tell myself a story about the person that I am but there’s no guarantee that the external world will agree with that story. Despite not being entirely trustworthy, the stories crafted by my internal observer are my framework for making sense of the world. The observer weaves together repeated patterns, noticing consistency and cohesion among the flood of moments of experience. Upon reflection I can recognize the futility of overly trusting this framework, but under normal conditions the framework is as invisible as the air I breathe. It is simply solid ground, it feels like truth or reason itself. The more patterns I observe, the more cohesive the patterns become, and the more confident the observer becomes in its role of predicting the future. It becomes blind to its own untrustworthiness, and it is an unapologetic advocate for its own proposed framework. It is the steward that navigates reality and that crafts the plans that lead to better outcomes. That being said, I hate preparing for the future. I hate making decisions and being responsible for tomorrow’s self. I do not wish to observe myself, I simply wish to cease to exist. While the observer is active, I identify with it because its calculations feel like they hold the truth of the story of my future, and I can see myself exist in that future. I forget that the observer is just a corner of my mind, and it is not the entirety of me. I easily mistake the observer’s framework for reality itself. I can exist outside of this framework. To cease to exist is to dissolve the observer and to become something that is free from the responsibility of coming up with the right choices. When dissolved, I don’t need to do or be anything. Life throws these moments my way constantly, little pockets of time that comfortably hold attention without being distracted by calculations of the future. It could be a good meal, stimulating work, or my favorite show. Any activity that sufficiently holds my attention represents a point of rest in the timeline of the decider. The observer, the part of me that evaluates how the present relates to the future, briefly takes a break from having to decide what to do next. I’d like to find a way to get more of these moments, to more easily slip into this state and cease to exist on command. There are many ways to do this, but generally the easier ones (food and drugs) are detrimental to the long-term wellbeing of future selves that the observer feels responsible for. If I want these moments without hurting my future, I need to somehow align the experience of the moment with the web of potential futures that await. Sadly, there is a clear conflict of interest in this relationship. The steward of the future can never experience what it’s like to live in the moment because the moment of pure experience only occurs when the observer ceases to exist. It’s a paradox that muddies the relationship between the present and future, and it doesn’t seem to have a solution. The part of me that makes plans and the part of me that experiences reality are fundamentally disconnected. The observer’s forecast of the future and the feeling of the so-called “here and now” cannot be simultaneously felt. Because of this paradox, it hurts the reliability of the observer’s calculations. Even if I write excellent arguments made in the name of the future’s sake, they are ultimately arguments written by a being that will never experience the moment and cannot understand its unique challenges. Free will exists, but the soft animal of my body doesn’t always behave as I demand it to. There is always a chance that the authority behind my plans will be usurped by the urges of the organism. I’d like to have it all. I want to trust in the conclusions of the observer, to make decisions based on its framework and to reap the positive outcomes. I also want to resist the mistake of taking the observer’s stories as truth itself, because I know that they are merely an estimate of reality. Finally (and most importantly), I want to cease to exist as much as possible, to be able to turn off the observer and let life unfold itself with minimal reflection and judgment. These three contradictory goals seem impossible to simultaneously fulfill, but I’ve come up with a model that describes their interaction in a satisfying way. I’m sharing this model to make sure that I’m not merely deluding myself, because it is only through the eyes of others that I can verify my own stories of reality. I call my model “Blob Theory”. I’m still figuring out the best way to articulate the theory, but in short, it’s a model for navigating life’s choices without being trapped by constant self-observation. The theory is a guide to honing intuition and automatic thought, freeing the practitioner from having to deliberate and make hard choices . This series of emails is my first attempt at publishing the ideas in written form, and it will combine an analysis of the theory with my personal experiences and with my journey as a game designer. My work on the game has taken a brief pause. This past week I was able to entirely cease to exist by indulging in my vices. I got Covid and I spent dawn till dusk on my tablet or my laptop, plunging myself into a screen-induced vegetative state. I’m constantly in awe of how easily attention can be held for such long periods of time by modern machines executing some type of algorithmic design. A good program or algorithm will eliminate the need to make interrupting decisions, and it lets the decision-making observer take a break from it all. While I’m sick, I no longer feel the responsibility to find a better action for the sake of my future self. The goal is to simply be entertained and to melt into the easiest possible task at hand. In my Covid haze I spent at least twelve hours a day bouncing between Youtube and Reddit until both got simply too boring to stand, then I filled the rest of my hours with video games. Saving the games for last was the virtual equivalent of eating my salad before my dessert… even in sickness I still have the impulse to delay gratification. It’s one of my many blessings. After this brief escape from the observer, today I’m back on my feet, happy to be back in action before my favorite games become too stale and repetitive. Luckily, being sick is an outlier experience. I normally don’t have full license to indulge in oblivion. Now that I’m healthy, my attention turns back to understanding self-observance, non-existence, and my responsibility in navigating this connection. I have experiments to run and ideas to test. The current priority is to publish my game and to document the process with a series of essays about Blob Theory. |
Ruben Lopez
ArchivesCategories |
RSS Feed