Kill the inbox

I am messy as hell.
The denial is over. Cold hard reality must triumph.
I am a messy, disordered human disaster.

I used to take it personally and as a sign of weakness and moral turpitude in days past. When your world is dominated by the simple-minded cult of anal and orderly, and your world is essentially ruled by such a stern culture of predictability, your messy manner draws expressions of disgust. Shame is thrust at you every cluttered step of the way.

I am not proud of my messiness yet I no longer assume it’s the symptom of a character failing. My messiness is simply emblematic of my personal method of thinking and perceiving my environment.

For instance, at work my department was recently moved to another portion of the floor which necessitated that we pack all our desk belongings and carry them all of 50 feet. In the scattered flurry of the move, the former basket I called my “inbox” was lost, and lately I’ve taken to calling my desktop, its entirety encompassed by four corners, my “inbox.” It’s rather humorous to broadly gesture at my desk when asked by people, who bring paper, where my inbox is. “This is it,” I add.

The principle of the inbox is a trite, one-size-fits-all remedy meant to conquer the distracting and haunting (to many people) presence of disorderliness. Once I began using my desk interchangeably as my “inbox” I feel much more relaxed and in control of my tasks. Inboxes psyche me out. They are oppressively demanding and intransigent, and frankly, a very big pain in my ass. I know it’s work. Yes, I am aware I need to do it. Why do I need it restrained in a stupid container with the unspoken command that it houses potential work which waits impatiently for me to tackle it? No shit. That’s stupid. Inboxes are stupid. Inboxes are like a prodding nanny who seeks to make your life hell by nitpicking its way into your soul, one peck at a time.

My thinking and organization style does not work this way. It never has and it never will. And now that I’ve come to terms with my own organizational (or lack thereof) habits, I consider myself liberated from the tenacious and close-minded limitations of common perceptions and expectations of orderliness. When people now throw papers on my desk I welcome the random disorder for that is my mind. My mind works like a cluttered desk coated with pending tasks, jobs and deadlines. I’m simultaneously able to keep tabs on everything currently populating my mind at any given moment and retrieve specific tasks. My mind is not an inbox. My mind does not order tasks. My mind is random access, and that is persona is mirrored in the organization of my workspace and home personal space.

“David’s desk is not very organized, but his brain is very organized,” said a co-worker in a moment of rare perception when describing the train wreck that is my work area.

She nailed it. I had never thought of it like this.
Once facts and figures and other external stimuli are absorbed and integrated into the cerebral blender of my mind, they lose their random and rambling fatigue upon being regurgitated. In my mind the stimuli is re-assembled into a predictable patchwork or regularity and consistency. Mentally, I am horribly organized, to the point of seemingly pathological distress. Earlier I spoke of my mind resembling a cluttered desk, which is true, on the surface, at the entry point, the pathways which lead into my mind. However, once absorbed and sorted in the subterranean inner workings of my brain, they are hammered into understandable and predictable data.

This is a trying reality in a world where orderliness is a holy virtue. Most people seem obsessed with order and organization. Entire businesses and products are centered around organization. I know of a woman who will come out to wherever it is you wallow in filth and for a hefty sum, she will organize you. This is bullshit, no one is organizing me. I can keep tabs of myself and my work, thank you. I don’t need some idiot coming in and disrupting my flow with their petty organizational fetish. Forget that, man.

One thing I’ve noticed is that I have an ability to “mentally multi-task” and it’s a skill I once assumed was common human nature, but it wasn’t until I entered the work force that I realized it is not a common trait. At the risk of tooting my own horn, I have incredible powers of mental multi-tasking. My brain is able to parcel out various cognitive sectors needing simultaneous attention while drawing barriers sturdy enough to prevent sectors from interfering or overrunning the others. It’s a special gift, I suppose, and I credit it with allowing me to entertain such messy work habits that most would find fearsome.

Number one: dump the inbox.
The inbox is the mediocre tool of a person who is unable to grasp the disorder of his world without such petty contrivances as delusional inboxes. Empty tools which lend a false perception of order.

The inbox attempts to do (weakly) what I’m able to do in my mind.
Apparently.

The great Paternity lie

Let me get one thing straight. I don’t give a fuck about paternity.
Hmm.

Forget that. Let me back up.
I don’t give a fuck about paternity insofar as it does not affect my financial status.

Because paternity is really just an orphan “instinct” with no solidified roots through the ages.
In and around and through the Mansphere / MRA, other niche societies, and among men in general, there is a tendency to uphold paternity as the holy grail of masculinity. There seems to be a fetish for the concept of paternity and all that it dictates for the evolutionary dance. I don’t buy it.

However, I am willing to admit that I do concern myself with paternity when it’s defined within the realm of modern personal politics and exposed as the retributive tool available (and wielded) by many women. Viewed from this pragmatic perspective, paternity loses much of its evolutionarily luster. Paternity, in our day and age, is money. It is nothing more and nothing less and I wish the MRA types would just admit this. Paternity doesn’t mean shit in the natural scheme of nature. Most aggravating is the extent to which they elevate the concept of paternity to romanticized, evolutionary ideals.

In this context, paternity is memorialized as an intrinsic and infallible element of human history; the MRA types circle around it in rabid dances of helpless emasculation. To prop paternity up on the evolutionary throne is to justify and rally around that which it is esteemed to signify and assert to us, as human men, that we need more. Paternity is idolized and worshiped and thus imbued as an immaculate conception. And is thus able to deify all other base instincts men can conjure in the heated pursuit of their fleeting manhood.

I thought about paternity after reading an interesting editorial at the Chateau this morning. The article, entitled “Who’s The Daddy?” appeared in The Spectator. The author, Melanie McDonagh, indulges in some unbelievable Swiftian corruptions of reality and asserts, essentially, that paternity testing is a dishonest tool for modern men. She accuses it of resulting in more harm than good. She concludes her piece with the illustriously deluded words, “But in making paternity conditional on a test rather than the say-so of the mother, it has removed from women a powerful instrument of choice. I’m not sure that many people are much happier for it.” McDonagh assumes the flagrant role of Self-Entitled Wench by maintaining that a newborn’s origins are best left to the mother to decide, thus alleviating or avoiding much harm and violence. The article frankly confounds any sense of reason you may have, but then again, don’t many women seem to have the uncanny mindfuck ability to distort reality and make any argument seem like a logical refutation of logical facts?

I read McDonagh’s bizarro arguments and I saw paternity as clearly as I’ve never seen it.

To repeat, paternity is bullshit.

In a wild, primitive environment, the sort that shaped our evolutionary heritage which still lives with us, paternity is meaningless.
Paternity is a luxury.
Much as monogamy is a luxury in a dangerous and primitive world. In such an environment, the overriding evolutionary aim of humans is to procreate and enable the newborn to live to breeding age. Here, monogamy is harmful and self-destructive. In a world where a man might die within minutes as he steps out of his cave or wherever the hell he lives, there is absolutely no pressing usefulness for the concept of monogamy.
In a world where individuals are under threat of instant violent death, all needs become communal. Including those of raising offspring. A man who might lose a physical battle with a wild bear tomorrow is unable to provide the physical protection that his child and mate require, and such a situation requires that other males in the tribe step in. This is the primitive environment, a collective contribution in which specific paternity is useless and counterproductive. It can be argued that maternity is not as crucial either, for the if the mother dies an early death, there are other women willing to contribute to the collective motherhood in order to nurture the child.

To emphasize, again, paternity is a patent luxury. It is a bastard offspring evolutionary trait of modern man’s cultural fixations, much like marriage, age of consent, and table manners.
Paternity is a meaningless societal nicety wrought on our modern soul by the needs of the fixed family structure born in the post-Agricultural era.

The human female, who endures 9 months of pregnancy before birthing flesh from her own body, of course must have a stronger sense of identification with the newborn. Due to this evolutionary lineage, the female is a fixed and domesticated element. Her role is of tranquil submission to nature. The male, evolved to breed incessantly, is freed of the tying bonds of immutability. His mind shaped as such throughout eons, is naturally unleashed from the concerns of mothering.

Because mothering is what we expect fathers to do and assume in the modern era.
Paternity is unnatural in that it accentuates the dysfunctional nature of our modern world.

Which brings me back to my original point about the new outlook I viewed paternity with after reading that nonsensical article in the Spectator this morning.

Paternity has become the modern-day fulcrum by which rabid men and rabid women assert a senses of power.
Paternity is the battle ground of gender wars and while it represents an inherently trivial item in the scheme of evolutionary history, it has been mutated into a fierce bone of contention by the modern human. Modern woman, seeking to sublimate the role of primal male, has usurped his nature (which involves mass fertilization and coldly shallow ties) and re-framed it as a question of “ownership” and “rights.” She (with the complicit help of powerful men) has turned man’s wild nature back upon himself. Cuckolding, the greatest tool women enjoyed for ages; which allowed them a sense of manipulation and power, which allowed them to pummel men into clueless obedience, is a primate legacy. Thousand of years ago, such acts were met with communal gestures of help and shared responsibility. It was not particularly noble, it just was nature’s call. Women have taken that ancient instinct and twisted it into a modern corruption of motives, and fooled men with the feminine tricks of antiquiity. The refinement of DNA testing was the greatest gift mankind never knew he discovered, and Woman’s Great Facade crumbled. And now women like McDonagh see fit to refine the art of female self-delusion into a fit of “paternity testing will cause violence” shibboleths. I won’t be surprised if this nonsense eventually finds a willing audience in mainstream media.

Paternity it not inherently important.
Yet, I live in the real world, and of course I realize its importance.
Paternity is important, but to sanctify the quality as something it is not eludes me.
Paternity is not evolutionary and the harder men try to squeeze this evolutionary tale from nothing, the more they lose sight of what it is they are truly fighting for.

Wherein I do the ‘hand thing’

I highly, highly, highly, highly, HIGHLY, doubt that there has been anyone throughout human history who envisioned the internet as it exists now.
Even the most freakishly clairvoyant oddball could never have spelled out, in detail, this vast and mind-numbing cultural escapade which has been brought to us by high speed data transmissions.

Who could have foreseen the internet becoming emblematic of a generational divide, a schism between young and old?

We’ve always known and been aware that this is a strange and discombobulated world composed of numerous scary, original, creative and peculiar people who you’d be glad to live far away from. Only a fool would not know this. But the internet has brought that reality directly into our homes. Logging on to the internet is akin to taking a snapshot of humanity’s chilling castoffs and spiritual degenerates with one push of the shutter button.

No longer are we forced to contemplate the world’s weirdness from the safety of absentia.
Fuck no.

It’s here, now. Don’t look far.

I was turned on to this bizarre spectacle of surreal (my son’s term) mental intrusion the other day.

Most things are weird by virtue of their oddly stated or observed perspective of normal, everyday events envisioned through a different lens.

And there are yet other strange happenings which simply confound all sense of logic and reality because they have no basis in our meticulously grounded reality.
Images, actions, words, so erratic, such frantic departures from the predictable lines of existence that they leave us shaking our heads for we do not know where to begin. The context is blown out and non-existent, and our conscious logical animal brain cannot fathom the extra-dimensional arrangement.

I was turned on to one such disconnected and unearthly show of imagery recently.

Yeah.

Don’t you think that is a little…disconcerting?
Not for any specific evil reason.

Simply because it does not aspire to any logical mental roles we frame our reality through. It transcends and snubs its nose at all previously integrated roles and leaves us feeling unsure.

One of the greatest of human traits is our capacity for imitation. From this trait flourished learning and experience-based wisdom.

And while some monkeys see, some do; and some do very badly.

I’m fond of remembering back to August, 2009, when I kicked this blog off and actually had some semblance of dignity.

“Situational intelligence” =/= brains

Granted, this post is part road-rage vent. You can’t beat the public expression of a personal gripe. Gives it more power, more gusto, you feel as if you’re taking it to them even though, in reality, you’re just vomiting poison words which maybe three people are reading. So yes, this is partly a personal vent…but I also have an observation to share which transcends petty ego pissing matches.

Monday mornings are not that bad for me. Really. Assuming I’ve had a placid and relaxing weekend, I’m usually energized by the time Monday morning rolls around. You’re likely to find me in good spirits. Today was such a day. Halloween was over graciously early and I crashed about 10 last night. I was utterly exhausted. This morning, on the cusp of 7 hours sleep, I was in a positive state. Accomplished all my normal morning routines shortly before finding myself heading into Hollywood on Sunset Boulevard. I tapped out the last of my cash at the gas station last night, so I decided to stop at a 7-11 on the outskirts of Hollywood and take the week’s cash out of the ATM (and if I play it right, maybe a week and a half’s worth). When I pulled into the parking lot, I decided I would park on the opposite side of the parking lot in order to expedite and ease the departure from this parking lot. Parking lots in Hollywood tend to be cramped and slightly dramatic due to the high volume of foot traffic and the tendency of many people to use Sunset’s third traffic lane as the freeway Express Lane. I spied a narrow spot and pointed my car towards it. My car happens to be very narrow and it’s not difficult to fit in the puniest spaces. The parking spot was bordered by two cars and being a very (I believe) smart driver, I eased into the spot super slowly. Common sense dictates that you don’t roar into an empty parking stall that has cars parked on both sides. As I pulled in, very damned slowly, my morning reverie was suddenly pierced by the sudden flinging open of a car door directly in my path which made me slam on my brakes. Since I was moving so slowly, there was no dramatic squealing, but for that moment all I could think was that my morning was now fucked because this would consume time and energy, trading insurance info, calling the police, etc. After my car stopped just short of the other car’s door, I saw the driver was a late-20’s/30ish woman, professionally coiffed, blonde and blue-eyed, the archetypal HBD Hope, a professional woman in a very smart car (a late-model Audi 4 series sedan) and she was talking on her fucking cell phone. She turned and looked and I gave my best “you dumbfuck cunt” eyeroll. Finally I motioned to her that I’d like to continue to park. Still on the phone, she got a clue and closed the door. I left the car, not bothering to behold her Anglo idiocy, and took my money out of 7-11’s ATM. When I returned to my car she was still parked, still on the phone, but at least the door was closed. The car, black and freshly cleaned, wore a license frame from a downtown L.A. Audi dealer. Undoubtedly a professional woman with a good head on her shoulders, attractive and good taste to boot. Based on my initial engagement with the idiot, I would venture to say she was the ideal HBD poster child. I doubt you’d find her at the local Hometown Buffet or free clinic.

As I drove away it occurred to me how astounding it was that an attractive and utterly professional and supposedly intelligent person could be conversely so utterly clueless of her environment.

And I thought of other typical “winners” of the HBD sweepstakes I see toiling about this grand city. Many of these trophy brains are complete and incontestable idiots when it comes to the road or other environments which test the skills of maneuvering personal space and personal locomotion through random and haphazard crowds and obstacles. There is a major disconnect. The brightest and most cerebrally able in this fine city are dolts once you draw them out of the boardroom or the classroom. What gives?

I thought about this brainiac chick who didn’t think to scour (or even glance at) her rear view mirror before flinging her car door open (which, incidentally, would be lying on the ground at that moment had I been equally stupid as she). My cold read was that she was a mid-level manager, a professional, undoubtedly degreed, probably working in the financial or legal sector. A woman who probably draws loads of admiration from her acquaintances for her smart woman existence. She and the powerful but subtle statement she makes with her smart 4-series German sedan. The woman was intelligent, I’m sure of it. But intelligence, as usual, confined to a fixed and controllable context, an intelligence which crumbles to borderline mental retardation when it is called upon in the piecemeal and unpredictable world of erratic human behavior and traffic patterns. Situations calling for an intelligence which is holistically cognizant of the environment rather than the chalkboard (or whiteboard). That hard, piercing intelligence which masters the open-ended and fluid because it is so vast and encompassing and races to map realities before they are drawn. An intelligence which garners awareness of most, if not all, players in the environment and can simultaneously track them and their movements and in fact, predict, independently of each other, future behavior based on antecedent behavior. Simultaneously. Intelligence which cannot be trained, for to attempt to embroider such an intelligence on one’s psyche may in fact defeat its natural genesis which requires intuitive mapping for the present environment.

I am not aware of any such label for this intelligence, nor if it has been memorialized or its pragmatic qualities set in stone.
I will call it situational intelligence.

Situational intelligence is not so much intelligence as it is a state of awareness that never shuts off. It is the perpetual motion machine of the senses. As long as we are lucid and awake and existing in reality, it is on. Our brain absorbs and processes an infinite series of variables throughout our daily life and the most situationally intelligent among have tuned their perception to such a refined degree of sensitivity and power of interpretation that they are literally “at one” with the environment. They are aware of the slightest changes or perturbations in the sphere of their existence. Situational intelligence becomes second nature; apparently, from my personal observations, it manifests itself in an inversely proportional relationship to the extent of one’s traditional cognitive intelligence (IQ).

In other words, high-IQ’d people tend to suffer from severe lack of situational intelligence.
However, the relationship I stated earlier meets diminishing returns when the subject’s IQ dips too low. In this case, the situational intelligence also takes a blow. I believe there is a range of cognitive intelligence that works within the inversely proportional framework when “measuring” situational intelligence. Whereas I believe increasing IQ may lead to decreasing situational intelligence in a perpetual seesaw of balancing, I believe that once IQ plummets below a certain threshold, situational intelligence is detrimentally affected, much as it would be in the case of a staggeringly rocketing IQ. Lest you’re inclined to call me out on this, keep in mind that this mess was completely born in my head this morning after that run-in with the situationally-unintelligent Audi-driving moron.