To be able to look back at one's own life and thoughts and to be able to process the journey which has taken one to the present are cornerstones to a well examined life. The alternative is to always live in the present which, they tell, is a great virtue. They are idiots, however. I have maintained this blog for more than 10 years now and even though I had never meant it to be so, this digital repository of my thoughts and personality has become, in some sense, more valuable than any other material possession of mine. To me it shows a fundamentally inconsistent series of thought processes. In moments of particular generosity I am tempted to view these inconsistencies as incontrovertible proofs of constant learning and improvement. At other more sober times I see them for what they really are. Mere wanderings on a meandering path which is headed towards no particular goal, no great distillation of knowledge, no ethereal summation or condensation. Still, to even realize this in oneself, some personality traits must be present and I can safely think of those traits as being desirable and as uncontested improvements. To realize and admit to one's own follies and limitations is definitely a desirable strength. And while some may achieve this through humility, I don't think it is the facilitating actor in my case. Even my best friends (and especially them) would probably not associate humility with me. The primary factor which is at work in me is an amalgamation of freewheeling cynicism, contempt, and pessimism which makes it easy for me to strip off the many layers of delusion which we, as human beings, often put on our human affairs. There's also apathy and a tendency to find amusement in what I consider the essentially futile and meaningless business of life. I see people who have choices in life and who consistently choose foolishly and it fills me not with sympathy for them but with amusement. As Carlin once said, when you are born you are given a ticket to the freak-show... (and if you are born in America you have the front row seats.) The least one could do is to try to find some enjoyment out of the show.

I am, in other words, not a hopeless romantic, at least not any more and not at most of the times. If I look back at some of the earliest posts on this blog and also some of my early email correspondences I can clearly see that these traits have developed and intensified over time. And that there were some people who were present at the right moments to guide me (unwittingly so) in what I consider is ultimately the right direction. As much as I like and respect people like David Foster Wallace, David Brooks, and Bill Watterson, I do maintain that one cannot develop a healthy respect for the innocent, non-cynical, and loving aspects of life without simultaneously harboring and understanding cynicism and contempt first. In the absence of the latter qualities one is doomed to be a romantic. And the only purpose of romantics in the real world is to serve as examples for how not to live one's life. They may serve as central characters in great melodramas and they form great canvasses for stories of stupendous emotional depth. However, as much as I like these stories I'd never want to be those central characters. There was a fellow Indian graduate student from IIT Madras whom I met very early after coming to UCSD and whose influence I now see clearly in my eventual turn of personality. His own personality was cynical, caustic, terse, and incredibly knowledgeable. He was, as I am now, a huge fan of Russian literature from the 19th century and there is something about Russian literature from that era which strips away the bullshit from human affairs. His early friendship, I now think, is what prevented me from sliding into the great idiotic abyss of optimism and hope.

I have now been in academia, in one form or another, for the last 12 years and while there is hopefully a long way to go and much to learn, there are also some interesting observations to make as I look back at all these years. It should come as no surprise to anyone who has spent some time in academia when I note that most of the research that I come across is incremental and a large fraction of it is what I'd call mediocre (which includes a similar fraction of my own work as well I concede.) I suppose there is space for this mediocrity in the current climate. Perhaps it is the climate (the administrative demands, the funding landscape, the short-sightedness) which breeds this incrementality but the effect is my sitting in many a talks wondering why anybody bothered to do the research and why anybody bothered to fund it.

I also note a surprisingly large contingent of professors who are not really interested in research but only in securing as much funding as possible and having as large a research group as possible. Large amounts of research funding and large research groups are unmistakable markers of success in academia nowadays which, to my sensibilities, is a shameful perversion of the original ideals of scientific inquiry. Moreover, I cannot yet comprehend how one can lose that attraction that one must surely have felt towards research when one was a graduate student at some point. How can bright, talented, excited, and sharp young graduate students turn into middling managers of the scientific enterprise in such vast numbers? Of course, I know the answers to all these rhetorical questions. I have seen it happen all too often in other areas as well. Reality sets in at some point. People forget what is truly important and they confuse  the conventional markers of success for happiness.

Maybe I am still too green in this business to lose the idealistic view that I have for what a worthy scientific career should look like. Maybe it is the deep seated contempt which seethes within me, directed liberally at the wisdom of others and especially of authority ,which preserves, to some extent, my idealism from the headwinds of reality. Perhaps it would wither away someday but at least it hasn't yet.

...these persons know firsthand that there is more than one kind of so-called 'depression.' One kind is low grade and sometimes gets called anhedonia or simple melancholy. It's a simple torpor in which one loses the ability to feel pleasure or attachment to things formerly important... The anhedonic can still speak about happiness and meaning et. al., but she has become incapable of feeling anything in them, of understanding anything about them, of hoping anything about them, or of believing them to exist as anything more than concepts. Everything becomes an outline of the thing. Objects become schemata. The world becomes a map of the world...

It's of some interest that the lively arts of the millennial USA treat anhedonia and internal emptiness as hip and cool. It's maybe the vestiges of the Romantic glorification of Weltschmerz,which means world-weariness or hip ennui. Maybe it's the fact that most of the arts here are produced by world-weary and sophisticated older people and then consumed by younger people who not only consume art but study it for clues on how to be cool, hip - and keep in mind that, for kids and younger people, to be hip and cool is the same as to be admired and accepted and included and so Unalone. Forget so called peer-pressure. It's more like peer-hunger. No? We enter a spiritual puberty where we snap to the fact that the great transcendent horror is loneliness, excluded encagement in  the self. Once we've hit this age, we will not give or take anything, wear any mask, to fit, be part-of, not be Alone, we young. The US arts are our guide to inclusion. A how-to. We are shown how to fashion masks of ennui and jaded irony at a young age where the face is fictile enough to assume the shape of whatever it wears. And then it's stuck there, the weary cynicism that saves us from gooey sentiment and unsophisticated naivete. Sentiment equals naivete on this continent... Hal, who is empty but not dumb, theorizes privately that what passes for hip cynical transcendence of sentiment is really some kind of fear of being really human, since to be really human (at least as he conceptualizes it) is probably to be unavoidably sentimental and naive and goo-prone and generally pathetic, is to be in some basic interior way forever infantile, some sort of not-quite-right-looking infant dragging itself anaclitically around the map, with big wet eyes and froggy-soft skin, huge skull, gooey drool.

-from Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace

The last four months have been deeply interesting, politically speaking. The last year, which featured the great Brexit drama on the other side of the pond, along with the coming years which will feature, among many unforeseeable issues I am sure, the French elections and further fissures in the EU resulting from the banking crises in Italy and Germany and the relentless unemployment in the southern European countries, may very well turn out to be the defining moments of the World in this century. One might look at the current political climate and shake their heads in bewilderment, but the general outline of how the events have unfolded appear, at least to me, more or less logical and capable of being explained. I think there are two main lines of thoughts with which to wrap one's head around these.

The first is economic and the main culprit here is technology. It is no secret that there is a deep economic aspect to the rise of nationalistic sentiments in the US and Europe. The manufacturing jobs have been decimated in these places, a phenomenon which has been accompanied by the hollowing out of entire towns, cities, cultural institutions, and ways of life. I refuse to take seriously the argument that the reason is the outsourcing of jobs to places like China. The argument, if true at all, only serves to delay what is truly inevitable. And the inevitability is the replacement of all or most of human labor by technology and automation. This is the reason why Trump will not be able to bring back a majority of the jobs which have been lost and this is the reason that contemporary economic nationalism is fundamentally misguided if it believes that the world can return to some sunny day in the past when there were good paying jobs galore which provided a sure shot way into a decent middle class life. The future is most certainly one of decreasing human jobs. It will also be one of increasing inequality unless something is done about it. That literally nothing has been done about this eventuality is a major reason why we have the current political climate. It is time to ditch the idiot who continues to insist that there is something inherently worthy about hard-work and that one's right to live comfortably should be linked to it. It is time to take concepts like Universal Basic Income seriously.

The second is religious and the culprit is atheism. Even though I am an atheist, I see very little of value in it. In fact, it is my opinion, that the rise of logic and rationality has had an overall deleterious effect on humans. It has destroyed religious institutions and with them it has destroyed the grounding that people could find in the past in the absence of material success and well being. It has created, in Nietzsche's words, the last man, completely defined by market forces. Nietzsche thought that the life of such a man would be akin to death itself. He did not envision what might follow. What has followed is a sense of abundant and wide-spread cultural irony and mockery, a sense that literally nothing is sacred and that nothing is inherently of much value. In the sustained absence of material success and in the most important broken promise of capitalism, a deep cultural desperation has set in and no religious institution is now strong enough to serve as an anchor.

In the economic and religious roots of current social crises, Marx and Nietzsche again loom large in this new century.

There is no doubt in my mind that the people and friends that I met while I was a student at UCSD were, as a group, the most interesting and most formative influence on my personality. My childhood and early youth exist in my mind only in half spoken broken sentences and in heavily patched over tapestries. What should have been the long, dark, and firm shadow of their grip on the succeeding decades of my life is, in reality, stunted, hesitant, and meek. My time in SD, on the other hand, stands as the singular and powerful influencer which is due, in no small part, to the singular characters whom I had the fortune (or misfortune) of befriending there.

There's, for instance, Babaji. The one who was perpetually short on decent clothes and decent hair but who made up for these shortfalls by being supremely passionate about all things outdoors and incredibly sharp, quick witted, and street smart. Stephen Fry once said that a Hungarian is the only man who can follow you in a revolving door and come out first. Over the years I have come to think that this is also the perfect description of Babaji and I am sure that other friends of mine who had the pleasure of interacting with him would agree. To think that this crafty and artful creature began his stint at UCSD with a monumental blunder of the habiliment variety, one which literally relieved him of all his clothes except the ones on his back, reveals to me a truth that I could not otherwise have discerned - that there are creatures smarter and more shrewd than Babaji out there. As humbling and disturbing as that realization is, this incident is more important and significant to me because it is precisely archetypical of Babaji as a unique person. I have known people who had their house burgled and I have known people who had their pockets picked. I have known people in various states of misfortune but I know of nobody else but Babaji who had all their clothes (and nothing else mind you) stolen. That incident became the singular framework for my understanding of him, periodically emphasized, no doubt, by my regularly finding him pottering about in his backyard in his signature red polo T-shirt and black shorts (which, I have always maintained, could have been longer than they actually were).

My friendship with Babaji ran deep and had many facets. Some philosophical, some culinary, but most important of them all was our mutual obsession with the 2-wheeled mode of transportation. I had two successive motorcycles (a yellow Kawasaki Ninja 250 and a blue Yamaha YZF600R) in San Diego and, to my knowledge, I was the first Indian grad student at UCSD during my time to eschew cars in favor of motorcycles - a genius decision in hindsight. Babaji soon followed suit and bought a yellow Suzuki GS500 and thus began a half a decade worth of motorcycling adventures in California, Arizona, Nevada, and Baja California. Almost all of our motorcycling trips ended with either mine or his, but more often his, motorcycle breaking down and they invariably involved the deus-ex-machina intervention of our resident guardian angel, Khatri bhai. But For all the breakdowns in all the random places (Barstow, Mojave desert, Catavina), the memories that I associate with those trips are simply sublime. These include riding non-stop and relentlessly at the redline on those unending Death Valley roads which seemed to continue on to infinity and fall over, vanish beyond the horizon. They include riding at the limit on the fast and sweeping mountain curves in Show Low Arizona. They also include spending the night on the streets of Ensenada as Babaji and I tried to withdraw some money, any money, from the ATMs in order to pay the guy who had hauled his entire family and Babaji's motorcycle on the back of his pick-up truck through 250 miles of Mexican back-country. They include, as well, the harrowing experience of me hauling Babaji on the back of my bike on the heavily trafficked I-15 and in the intense winds of southern Californian mountains. As I was trying to make sure not to veer into the 18-wheelers zooming past, Babaji, I understand, was soaking in the sublime beauty of the endless windmills fields. In that moment when I was doing the hard work he was, as he has often been, supremely serene and happy.

President Elect Trump

Yesterday Trump defied the pollsters and the media at large and pulled off a stunning upset in the general elections. He is the president elect now and will be sworn in as the next president in 2017. Throughout the period of his rise I have felt that there was a sense of inevitability in it. Although I did not expect him to actually win, the Trump phenomenon, per se, didn't ever surprise me. Perhaps the thing that surprised me the most about his rise was the fact that it had not come earlier. It has been 8 years since the great recession, during which time vast swathes of the country have seen its wealth diminish and transferred to the coasts and few urban centers. Politicians, democrats and republicans alike, have paid mere lip service to the plights of the many millions and have used them cynically to their own ends. While people in the great heartlands of America were witnessing their lives disintegrate, politicians, democrats especially, were happy squabbling about non-issues such as the bathrooms that transgender people should use. Are they now surprised that the heartland has just delivered them a swift kick in the nuts? Trump is very much a product of their arrogance and smugness. He is a repudiation of a system which is rotting from inside anyway and in that sense he represents a necessary and welcome correction. It's a system which is defined by a sharp divide between the elites (moneyed, powered, politically connected, media, urban) and the vast common populace (poor, rural or suburban, politically diminished) and in which the former has completely abdicated its own responsibility towards the latter. Not only that. The former looks down upon the latter as ignorant, racist, bigoted, and contemptible. Well guess what. The latter are the majority and they just decided to light up the entire system and have a good old bonfire.

If I could vote I don't think I would have voted for Trump. However, I do think that his victory actually represents something absolutely beautiful and incredibly amazing about the American democratic system. Here is a guy who fought absolutely everything and everybody. This includes almost the entire media establishment and his own political party. He ran a shoddily managed campaign perpetually short on cash and broke every rule in the book. But in the end he beat out the better heeled, better organize, better funded, better connected, and better supported campaign of Hillary Clinton. And he did it purely by the will of the people who supported him so enthusiastically. There is something alive and uplifting about that. In the past I have often made the very common mistake of underestimating Trump. I think now I'll reserve my judgment of the kind of leader he will make. I think there is a good argument one can make that despite everything that he said over the past year and a half, he may end up leading in precisely the kind of way that a classical liberal might have wanted. Not the bullshit liberal of the current democratic party but a true liberal. I can only hope.

I have now met and interacted with enough people in my life that I am hardly ever surprised by new acquaintances. There is a great repetitiveness to conversations and to the lives of people. As far as what goes on in conversations, I might as well predict the general responses and points of views without exchanging a word. People are driven, more than anything else, by their insecurities and they will delude themselves by trying to appear strong, righteous, prim, and proper. They have never committed an evil deed in their lives, at least none that they are sorry for. They have often been unfortunate though. The world has been unfair to them. It is always others who could not understand them, who failed on their stringent standards. Everybody is always right in their own eyes and has always been so. Their delusions are side-splittingly hilarious.

In a conversation I am only ever interested in the subtext. I have heard all the boring details more times than I care for. Yes your kid is the smartest kid that there ever was. We'll see in another 20 years. Yes, you've had a terrible heartbreak. It is still only one in 150 million entirely pedestrian heartbreaks today. A hard day at the job? I get reminded of that image of the malnutritioned child and the vulture in waiting. Devoid, therefore, of either much novelty or any semblance of perspective, I find myself only ever being drawn to the subtext of conversations. Which insecurities are a person trying to dress up? How are they deluding themselves? What fears are they hiding? I'm neither sympathetic to these fears and insecurities nor dismissive of them. I'm merely interested because I have them too. This subtext is the only truly interesting part of people.

Petersburg, Petersburg!

Falling like fog, you have pursued me, too, with idle cerebral play: you are a cruel-hearted tormentor: but you are an unquiet ghost: for years you have attacked me; I too ran through your dreadful prospects [streets], in order to take a flying leap on to this gleaming bridge...

Oh, great bridge, shining with electricity! Oh, green waters, seething with bacilli! I remember a certain fateful moment; over your damp railings I too leant on a September night: a moment - and my body would have flown into the mists.

from Petersburg by Bely

It is a great irony that the time that a person spends being happy and content is precisely the time which is also his least productive, least creative, and least formative. This is not to say that a state of contentment is to be avoided but only that that state may be a fundamental contradiction and an ultimate mirage for a certain kind of person. For a person who sees virtue in instability and darkness, for one who cannot help but observe the degeneration which is implicit in stability. One can get too carried away with this chain of thought and, drunk on the romanticism of mere words and on their revolutionary appeal, undermine the virtues of happiness, contentment, stability, but herein lies the delicate rub, the slender truth pulsating on the whimper of a knife's edge. It points in only one direction, towards only one conclusion. One that I have arrived at time and again and have not been able to escape in my many internal musings. Still.

If for the duration of this post I do put my blinders on, if I do allow myself to be swayed by a lack of balance and good reason, if, and only for a bit, I put aside the final state of cosmic confusion which is my irrevocable destiny, and think about the most formative years of my life, the ones I miss the most in an intellectual sense, they would have to be the last couple of years that I spent in San Diego. Between the Curlew street house and the sixth avenue apartment, at a time when I found myself more alone than most people probably ever will, wandering aimlessly along the streets of Hillcrest and North park, observing silently and hearing from a distance the muffled drone of the business of life, I grew more as a person than I did perhaps in the sum total of all my other years. There was nowhere to go and often nobody to see and the days would roll off one after another with the kind of rigidity and purposelessness which is the very embodiment of life itself. Time, it now feels, both slithered away too quickly and stood motionless for an unbearable eternity. In hindsight I see those years as being deeply crucial. As a person I was essentially half-formed before them and I thought that I knew everything. I came out of those years thinking that there is nothing to know in a very deep sense. I also came out of those years dismissive of the "knowledge" of others. Those who have never struggled alone simply have nothing worthwhile to say. They speak exclusively in platitudes and their lives are but ridiculous carbon copies of each other.

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