Most of this writing is pretty miscellaneous - an idea gets into my head and I spend a half hour putting words down to extract some sort of meaning out of it. There really isn't a consistent theme, but the diversity of writing opens up new avenues of exploration.
The past five years have seen a string of popular books discussing the future of the economy, labor, artificial intelligence, and our failing education system, but perhaps nobody explains it better than Joi Ito and Jeff Howe, both of the MIT Media Lab. Whiplash, a series of nine basic principles on how to interact in this mercurial new world, breaks it down for those of us working to find our fit. As someone who has struggled to balance entrepreneurial excitement with the security of a day job, the simplicity of the explanations and the profoundly new way of thinking had me sitting back and re-evaluating my whole life plan. Here’s a chapter title: Compasses over Maps. These three words challenge the fundamental principles of blindly accepting the knowledge passed down to us as a finished product. Just like roads are built, populations shift, cities grow and rural towns die, knowledge is ephemeral. It comes and goes, it morphs into something else and escapes our grasp once we thought we had it all figured out. There is a fascination today with handing down “packets” of information, in essence giving us both the problems and the answers in an easy to digest formula, but adds little to our intrinsic development. Granted, these “packets” can be incredibly useful if taken apart, analyzed in different contexts and then re-applied to real-world problems. But this reliance placates our curiosity, it calms our racing mind, puts us into a state of acceptance. After all, everything we need is right there, why go searching? Why question it? We are then steered to continue segmenting knowledge into specific realms, producing “specialists” and systems that favor those that have experience following specific procedures.
Why do we still break education into segmented classes, at set times, with set curriculum, based around repetitive lectures and an artificial dual-semester format? Can we afford to tell our children that checking off a few boxes and moving on to yet another random, mass-produced curriculum is the way to succeed in the gritty real-world? Or perhaps ask why so many companies hire with such specificity. Take a look at a typical job description, and you’ll likely see ten pre-requisites, with a few ambiguous platitudes about integrity and creativity. Here’s an example of a mid-level management position at a large pharmaceutical company; “Master's degree in biostatistics, epidemiology or biomedical engineering, five years' experience in statistical methodology, five years' experience in a clinical environment, three years' experience with SAS, four years' experience with health data, three years' experience project development, three years SAP development experience.” For argument’s sake, let’s say there are 25,000 “Statisticians” in the workforce (earlier estimate of 20,000 in 2010, by the Bureau of Labor Statistics), and maybe 15% of them are Biostatisticians or epidemiologists, leaving 3650 people. For argument's sake, we will double that number to 7000, considering that some biostatistics graduates have gone into other fields. Out of a nation with 300 million people, this company has already narrowed down its pool of applicants to .002% of the population. Add in this arbitrary blend of “experience”, and you can probably count the number of possible applicants that meet all the requirements to a few dozen. Those with this experience are often already in good jobs, and those that might be interested will likely miss the job posting. This is absolutely unsustainable, unrealistic and debilitating, both for our economy, innovation and our own personal development.
We need navigators, explorers, people that can weave their way in and out of complex topics, learn new things rapidly, and then reapply them to the next adventure they go on. The impact of the multi-faceted intellectual with the courage to go out into the world and make an impact is profound. We continue to celebrate the myth of the young savants that immediately latch onto a research topic and follow that until the inevitable Nobel Prize and adulation from the masses in awe of their razor-sharp determination. Yet, listen to many of the foremost researchers, writers, scientists and activists of our time, and virtually everyone will talk about how they “stumbled” into the field that won them fame. This isn’t an accident, this is the reality of knowledge exploration. Great thinkers initially take the closest road of knowledge, which will lead to an infinite number of intersections; some of these intersections lead nowhere and might require backtracking, while other paths may lead to untold opportunity. Epistemology is a journey that rarely provides a straight path forward. Education should revolve around the need to explore a wide range of topics and figure out how to put them together, careers should be a rapid churn of knowledge and movement. Research and obtain the minimum amount of information that you need to explore the topics on your own, and start the journey.
--Compasses over Maps.
If you’ve been involved in design, art, philosophy, or even delved into the rebellious counter-culture of college, you’ve likely read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Other than some academic tomes, it is one of the most philosophically dense books out there, but written in a subtle, accessible way. I found myself unable to put it down at times, especially when he goes down the rabbit hole of defining the metaphysics of quality, melding the fine balance between art and science, mysticism vs. positivism, or the role of happiness versus contentment. If you find yourself thinking about the aesthetics of environment, the purpose of your occupation or livelihood, or even just interested in hiking through a philosophical quest with an obviously well versed narrator, read this book. But I won’t end this as a wide-eyed, fawning review.
There are two categories that he describes from the beginning: John, a friend that accompanies the narrator (unnamed) and his son on a road trip from Minnesota to California, appreciates motorcycles. He likes looking at them, feeling the smooth leather and sleek lines with his fingertips as he preps for a ride through the countryside. But as soon as a gasket breaks or an engine overheats, he hates the motorcycle. He blames it for the unfortunate situation of being broken down on the side of the road, and holds out hope that he can find a mechanic to come fix it. The narrator is the contrast. When he feels a slight difference in the tone of the engine rumble, he uncovers a set of charcoaled spark plugs, indicating a fuel-oil imbalance as a result of the altitude. He fixes it and moves on…but he never would have seen this problem coming without having extensive time and experience turning the nuts and bolts of his motorcycle, becoming familiar with each movement and ratio. And that right there is the crux of the book, delving into the exploration of an object or idea, and becoming so intertwined with it that you can appreciate each and every aspect. By being ‘at one’ with it, you’re able to transcend the superficial.
And by and large, that makes sense. But I think Pirsig’s philosophy is missing the next step, the idea that once you get to a certain stage of virtuosity, it is time to become the master, to pass on your knowledge and have your work transcend yourself as an individual. True, at one point he says “The place to improve the world is first in one’s own heart and head and hands, and then work outward from there,” but I just don’t see it in his actions or his mental meanderings. In his view, one would spend 70 years mastering the art of the carburetor - but is that the end? What was the ultimate point, if there is no lasting significance to your life’s work, other than a pristinely maintained carburetor? In the book (which generally follows his own life story), the narrator is recovering from a psychotic breakdown, where his quest for quality became such an all-encompassing obsession that he lost everything, was treated with electro-shock therapy and assumed a new identity and personality. I might be wrong, but I think that comes from not having an outlet for his creativity, keeping it inside and letting it eat away at his life. Had he continued his quest for quality while developing those around him and simultaneously accepting the limitations of the physical world he operates in, his legacy could have been that of a master, a revered figure that pushed the boundaries of achievement. But instead, it drove him mad, and he became a shell of his own self.
The other issue I took with the book is the disregard for happiness, or even contentment. Now-a-days, there’s a misunderstanding of where happiness, contentment or ‘self-esteem’ come from. Schools have gone from strict corporal punishment-infused lectures with little to no ‘real’ interaction from their students, to undisciplined zoos where teachers aren’t supposed to acknowledge shortcomings. Ask any teacher and you’ll get a myriad of horror stories. Adults often mistake happiness with laziness, as if playing video games and sitting on the couch is the goal they are working towards. Happiness has now become some new age term mired in self-gratification, where entire sections of bookstores promise the reader where they can find theirs, but at its core there is a reality in the term. The path to happiness is very often difficult, a struggle, and can lead to great disappointment. But once you find something you care about, you can push past those barriers and find happiness as a temporary node, based on achievement and perseverance. It’s not going to stay around forever and it won’t just come to you looking for companionship. And that’s where I diverge from Pirsig; in his view, quality seems passionless.
There’s a part in the book where he starts comparing the ego-climber and the selfless climber (while on a mountain with his son). He goes on to conclude that the ‘self-less’ climber is more ‘present’ in the activity, while the ego-climber wants to get to the top quickly, although I don’t actually understand his point. They both rest at the same time, get tired at the same points, and in his view neither are happy or content. It’s just a question of ‘presence, where one has it and the other doesn’t. But I reject his characterizations; I probably fall under his ego-climber category; I’ve climbed a good number of mountains (both literally and figuratively), I’ve been disappointed having turned back at times, I’ve missed the “beautiful passage of sunlight through the trees,” but I’ve been ecstatic when I’ve seen hard work pay off. I’ve sat at the top of a mountain, normally with a good friend, overlooking the surroundings. That makes me happy, makes me content, and gives me the fire and passion to accomplish other things. Is that somehow a lesser contentment than the meanderer roaming along a pathway? To each their own, but Pirsig makes some critical generalizations about the rest of the world when he couldn’t handle the world around him in the first place. Not to mention, the ‘ego-climber’ in this case is his ten-year-old son, being dragged on an extended road trip to appease his fathers’ mental breakdown.
This book is a must read. The philosophical journey will resonate with you and perhaps open another avenue of perception of both yourself and the world around you. But don’t be a passive reader, if you disagree with some of it, note it, mark the points of contention and argue against yourself. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance might be your best start to read aggressively.
The New Yorker recently wrote an article about the Imperial Valley in California and the neighboring Salton sea; while the state suffers from a devastating four-year drought, the Imperial Valley has used its water seniority from the Colorado river to sustain its livelihood and farming activities, which reduces the water supply to San Diego. A common refrain consists of criticizing the water-thirsty urbanites and lauding the right of small communities to exist in the rapidly globalized, conglomerated world of hyper-expanding metropolises. Indeed, San Diego has few fresh water sources, while its population has exploded to well over three million flocking to its Mediterranean climate and biotechnology sector. Desalination and local water recycling yield moderate advancements, but full-scale application is not yet there…nor will it be for decades. Although the quest towards building a sustainable water cycle is noble, society has to balance future potential with immediate needs.
Cities are the manifestation of humanity’s need for social interaction. In most cases, a city yields an average 10% increase in productivity compared to the same number of people in rural communities, largely as a result of more opportunity to interact and collaborate with both diverse groups and concentrated interest (this 10% figure can applied to virtually any population-based metric, whether it be a 10% increase in charity donations or, unfortunately, a 10% increase in violent crime). For instance, an artist in Los Angeles has hundreds of thousands of potential collaborators to provide synergy, while an artist in rural North Carolina often struggles to find adequate connections. Einstein fleshed out his ideas with Michele Besso in Swiss cafes, the Lost Generation of Hemmingway, Fitzgerald and Stein met and collaborated in Paris, and the list goes on. It’s why small communities struggle to keep their young, as they can’t offer them the same opportunities as cities can. Undoubtedly, there is a Caracas or Benghazi that can be used as a counter argument, but these normally involve inadequate governance and the momentum of violence; they can easily be contrasted by a Berlin or New York.
Getting back to Imperial Valley, we have a tendency to live in our cities with self-deprecation, bemoaning the dwindling areas that might be defined as frontier or traditional America, perhaps as an apology to our distance from nature and subsistence. Yet one look at Imperial Valley and the façade of reality unveils the ultimate level of unsustainability. How is it that lush green fields of lettuce, broccoli and alfalfa grow surrounded by harsh desert? Of all the places to conduct flood irrigation and grow some of the most water-hungry plants, much for international export, Imperial Valley makes little sense. The massive excess of fertilizers have concentrated toxic levels of nitrogen, phosphates and salt in the water flow, all of which have been used as the reasoning for more water, more energy and a repeat of this downward spiral. In fact, the population has risen at one of the fastest rates in California for the past six years, yet residents wonder why the Salton Sea is dwindling. One of the points of contention in the article involves a nine-billion dollar plan to restore the lake, with grandiose visions of salt-water fishing and resorts in a throwback to its heyday of the ’60, when Sinatra prowled the speedboat scene. The plan is to pay a small portion of it with money from San Diego, which is forced to buy access to the water as a downstream consumer, the rest with funds from the California and Federal government…in other words, taxpayers. Many of the larger landowners do not actually live in the area, instead simply own the farms as an investment while relying on migrant and tenant farmers. Why subsidize an already infeasible area, which has had past success simply because they have traditionally had easy access to cheap water, losing perspective of the cost of this natural resource. When does the cycle end? Revitalizing the area will bring more people, which will further increase farming, which will again deplete natural resources, which will push artificial solutions, and then another round of subsidies.
We must be realistic about our growth. There is plenty of land that survives just fine without humans, and there are areas with decadent rainfall and fertile soil that can provide for us agriculturally. Let the deserts be deserts, let the forests be forests, take advantage of the contours and nuances of this world. Modify the environment with as little an impact as possible, and don’t be afraid to step back when it’s not working. Rapid entropy will let you know if it’s not to be. Subsidies can provide a short-term boost to assist while a community transitions back to sustainability. These subsidies must not be given without an exit plan, an ultimate vision as to how this money will be used and then returned back to the system when growth returns. We need CREATIVE DESTRUCTION. Some things should not exist as they are, and relying on historical precedent isn’t the answer. If Imperial Valley wants to reset itself as a solar technology magnet, or a low-key area that takes advantage of salt water resorts (such as Israel/Jordan’s dead sea development), then so be it. But using a massively disproportionate share of natural resources to provide agricultural exports to the international community while passing the bill to the rest of us is not the answer. We are conflating entrenched interest preservation with natural and cultural sustainability.