What strange times these are. How do you spend your days? I must confess that I remain quite busy although I hesitate to tell you how too much of my time is spent. As my editor would prompt me, "Do you really have to go into all that?"
But, having given it some thought, I concluded that I probably should. What I want to describe is the terrifying, frustrating, unnecessary, state of our life presently in what I describe as a kind of confusing existence in a "tower of babel."
On the other hand, perhaps my introductory, candid remarks actually describe my life in this "tower of babel." I am referring here to the inordinate amount of time I must spend making up "user names," and "passcodes," writing them down in my thickening book of user names and passcodes, many of which must be changed regularly, some of which I am reminded are not sufficiently secure, and hardly any of which I remember.
But that is not the worst of the matter. Oh no! It goes like this. I need to maneuver around on my iPhone to log into the multiple sites I must consult for vital information, messages, notifications, alerts, request after request for donations, weather warnings, news updates, warnings that my subscriptions need new information because my old credit card no longer can shell out cash because my old card was deleted due to having been lost or stolen or replaced by a "better" one.
Back to maneuvering on my iPhone which I truly love because it contains multiple sources and information the Library of Congress would envy. But, at some point in these maneuverings, I come to some information, technique, or a process my iPhone provides to help me untangle all that I "would," "could," and "must do" in order to carry on my existence in this topsy-turvy modern world within the tower of babel that has become my habitat.
And the basic problem is this. I do not know how to maneuver my little but brilliant iPhone.
And here, I must confess. I never read the instruction book of information that came with and within my dear little iPhone. Why did not I not read these instructions? Let's be honest here. Did you ever read these instructions, or try to? Does anyone have time and intelligence to sort through that? In fairness, I guess, I add that it probably is not all that hard. And I am sure that one person in a hundred —well, maybe one in a thousand—will read the darn stuff. Of that number, very probably 99% of them probably enjoy that kind of thing and may even have written the instructions.
But wait! How do I know it was a "person?" How do I know it was not an AI fueled robot? Really! Who dreams such stuff? No, that could not have been a robot because robots do not dream! (Munch on that one before we go on.)
Now, however, robotic or not those instructions may be, I did not read them. Very likely, on my gravestone, some robot will have chiseled in: "He never read the instructions." Fortunately, my editor has read at least enough instructions to navigate the mysterious terrain between my hand-written notes and anything I ever publish.
So there it is, a true confession, a short-coming of sorts, but not entirely. Why would I say, "not entirely?" Because I live in this hubbub world of AI generated information and a creation of our technocracy. But there is something else about this psychological, bizarre, scary existence I call a tower of babel, in which I and many of us are attempting to digest a daily diet of insanity and danger.
True, we could call this world in which we live a "tower babel" or even an "asylum" where patients run the place. But today I prefer the metaphor "tower of babel."
You will see what I mean when you recall the story in Genesis 11:1-9. This mythic story in Genesis focuses on two themes. The first is the prideful attempt by our young civilization to build a tower so high it would reach way up in the heavens where God was thought to oversee the going-ons of everything down below. But the second theme emphasizes what happens when we human beings overreach our abilities.
You may consider as well that this is not only an account of our human fascination with heights. We build pyramids, ziggurats, and majestic twin towers. We build ladders and elevators that help us reach the top of these towers. And even the language of reaching the top describes our fascination with ascent in corporate careers, sports, and salaries. Even the negative side of "reaching the top" connotes the terrain of being laid off," demoted, "falling short of expectations," dumped, "letting the team down," "falling short," etc.
This metaphorical fascination and visual imagery of heights serves well the metaphor of success, power, and God-like rule over everything below. The "tower of babel" portrays very well this first theme. However, the second theme follows. This second theme attempts to account for the many different languages we human beings speak. Our pride in erecting one tower for everyone splinters as disagreements occur. We divide into sub-groups and then larger groups, each of which has its own way of communicating. Thus arises the tribalism that describes the evolution of racial, ethnic, cultural, geographical, and political groups. Hence, we "babble." We do not communicate, we "babble." We do not engage in empathic outreach to understand the "other," we "babble." The word itself can mean "to confuse."
And, then, the great towers we erect around the world serve as self-perceived, vain, deathly monuments of pride. "My tower is longer and more beautiful than yours," we babble. We confuse one another and ourselves.
Here enters my editor. "Wait," she said, "surely you are not going to leave like that"! "What do you mean," I ask. "Well, that's quite a downer of a conclusion, I must say," she replied. "Is there any hope?"
And so, I gave that some thought, finally coming to this conclusion. There are towers, and there are towers. The notion of ascending, of going up, such longing of humanity is archetypal. But, as with our personal chronological age, to grow up does not ensure that we mature. When our parents said to us as children or teenagers who made serious mistakes, "Grow up,"! I would think on these occasions, "but I am growing up, and that may be a problem for you."
Only later did I learn that "to grow up" does not mean to get older, bigger, or taller. It meant to use our common sense, to mature, to become conscious. The problem? Children and teenagers do not speak the same language as parents and teachers. That's why they must learn the language and ways of healthy adults.
Our ascent becomes our burden. Maybe we can learn to build towers and speak the same language as others, a language of wisdom and consciousness. And maybe there is time left for us to read the instructions. Meanwhile, beneath the tower of babel, there exists the human soul where no bombs can penetrate and babble cannot confuse.
But, having given it some thought, I concluded that I probably should. What I want to describe is the terrifying, frustrating, unnecessary, state of our life presently in what I describe as a kind of confusing existence in a "tower of babel."
On the other hand, perhaps my introductory, candid remarks actually describe my life in this "tower of babel." I am referring here to the inordinate amount of time I must spend making up "user names," and "passcodes," writing them down in my thickening book of user names and passcodes, many of which must be changed regularly, some of which I am reminded are not sufficiently secure, and hardly any of which I remember.
But that is not the worst of the matter. Oh no! It goes like this. I need to maneuver around on my iPhone to log into the multiple sites I must consult for vital information, messages, notifications, alerts, request after request for donations, weather warnings, news updates, warnings that my subscriptions need new information because my old credit card no longer can shell out cash because my old card was deleted due to having been lost or stolen or replaced by a "better" one.
Back to maneuvering on my iPhone which I truly love because it contains multiple sources and information the Library of Congress would envy. But, at some point in these maneuverings, I come to some information, technique, or a process my iPhone provides to help me untangle all that I "would," "could," and "must do" in order to carry on my existence in this topsy-turvy modern world within the tower of babel that has become my habitat.
And the basic problem is this. I do not know how to maneuver my little but brilliant iPhone.
And here, I must confess. I never read the instruction book of information that came with and within my dear little iPhone. Why did not I not read these instructions? Let's be honest here. Did you ever read these instructions, or try to? Does anyone have time and intelligence to sort through that? In fairness, I guess, I add that it probably is not all that hard. And I am sure that one person in a hundred —well, maybe one in a thousand—will read the darn stuff. Of that number, very probably 99% of them probably enjoy that kind of thing and may even have written the instructions.
But wait! How do I know it was a "person?" How do I know it was not an AI fueled robot? Really! Who dreams such stuff? No, that could not have been a robot because robots do not dream! (Munch on that one before we go on.)
Now, however, robotic or not those instructions may be, I did not read them. Very likely, on my gravestone, some robot will have chiseled in: "He never read the instructions." Fortunately, my editor has read at least enough instructions to navigate the mysterious terrain between my hand-written notes and anything I ever publish.
So there it is, a true confession, a short-coming of sorts, but not entirely. Why would I say, "not entirely?" Because I live in this hubbub world of AI generated information and a creation of our technocracy. But there is something else about this psychological, bizarre, scary existence I call a tower of babel, in which I and many of us are attempting to digest a daily diet of insanity and danger.
True, we could call this world in which we live a "tower babel" or even an "asylum" where patients run the place. But today I prefer the metaphor "tower of babel."
You will see what I mean when you recall the story in Genesis 11:1-9. This mythic story in Genesis focuses on two themes. The first is the prideful attempt by our young civilization to build a tower so high it would reach way up in the heavens where God was thought to oversee the going-ons of everything down below. But the second theme emphasizes what happens when we human beings overreach our abilities.
You may consider as well that this is not only an account of our human fascination with heights. We build pyramids, ziggurats, and majestic twin towers. We build ladders and elevators that help us reach the top of these towers. And even the language of reaching the top describes our fascination with ascent in corporate careers, sports, and salaries. Even the negative side of "reaching the top" connotes the terrain of being laid off," demoted, "falling short of expectations," dumped, "letting the team down," "falling short," etc.
This metaphorical fascination and visual imagery of heights serves well the metaphor of success, power, and God-like rule over everything below. The "tower of babel" portrays very well this first theme. However, the second theme follows. This second theme attempts to account for the many different languages we human beings speak. Our pride in erecting one tower for everyone splinters as disagreements occur. We divide into sub-groups and then larger groups, each of which has its own way of communicating. Thus arises the tribalism that describes the evolution of racial, ethnic, cultural, geographical, and political groups. Hence, we "babble." We do not communicate, we "babble." We do not engage in empathic outreach to understand the "other," we "babble." The word itself can mean "to confuse."
And, then, the great towers we erect around the world serve as self-perceived, vain, deathly monuments of pride. "My tower is longer and more beautiful than yours," we babble. We confuse one another and ourselves.
Here enters my editor. "Wait," she said, "surely you are not going to leave like that"! "What do you mean," I ask. "Well, that's quite a downer of a conclusion, I must say," she replied. "Is there any hope?"
And so, I gave that some thought, finally coming to this conclusion. There are towers, and there are towers. The notion of ascending, of going up, such longing of humanity is archetypal. But, as with our personal chronological age, to grow up does not ensure that we mature. When our parents said to us as children or teenagers who made serious mistakes, "Grow up,"! I would think on these occasions, "but I am growing up, and that may be a problem for you."
Only later did I learn that "to grow up" does not mean to get older, bigger, or taller. It meant to use our common sense, to mature, to become conscious. The problem? Children and teenagers do not speak the same language as parents and teachers. That's why they must learn the language and ways of healthy adults.
Our ascent becomes our burden. Maybe we can learn to build towers and speak the same language as others, a language of wisdom and consciousness. And maybe there is time left for us to read the instructions. Meanwhile, beneath the tower of babel, there exists the human soul where no bombs can penetrate and babble cannot confuse.
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