Like some curio forgotten in an attic, a temple molders on a hilltop. Its ornate construction stands as a reminder of how little the past can teach the present. Between fits of mad laughter it calls, “Someday you and everything you love will be as irrelevant and forgotten and unfathomable as this.” Would those butchered there find solace from it becoming a tourist spot? – The Danzantes of Monte Alban
In the days before the Cadillac there was a massive and exquisite Pontiac, a Bonneville as old as the mountains, metallic blue, and equipped with rear wheel-skirts. Whereas its theft set everything in motion, this segment of my annals commands rigorous study. – The Chosen Chariot
Your toe brushes the landmine gas-pedal. The ravenous hood devours the road and the distinction between you blurs. “You” are the rational faculty of a mythic being: half car, half man. As if mocking the difference between transcendence and immanence, the soul of this latter-day satyr neither exists apart from you nor is it pantheistic. Though the product of a synergy, it can’t be equated with any sum. When the dichotomy collapses, when you become one, your coalescence is irreducible like some elementary chemical. – Town of Ghosts
When the next great historian writes of the decline and fall of our empire, I will have no difficulty pinpointing its zenith. If a wise man were called upon to demarcate the epoch when the automobiles were most magnificent, he would, without hesitation, name the Golden Age between the decession of Johnson and the inauguration of Carter. The cars were colossal and solid, forged from the purest sheet metal. Powered by the blast furnaces of the gods — the grandest V-8 engines — they had no peers in strength. In homage to Euclid, all the great four-doored ones exemplified rectangularity: the Cadillac Fleetwood and Sedan DeVille, the Lincoln Continental Town Car, the Pontiac Bonneville and Catalina, the Buick Electra and Chrysler New Yorker and 1973 Imperial. These glorious bricks blessed the concrete seas with their majestic bearing. And by 1980, darkness fell. The Great Ones were desecrated (“downsized” was the coarse euphemism) with puny bodies and feeble engines. What is there for a man to do but cover his eyes and weep as he beholds the degradation of what was once mighty and proud? – From A Great Length
An ant crawls across a sliver of sun on the concrete, from darkness into a patch of light back into darkness. Sound like anyone you know? Others follow, their paths labyrinthine, their obscurity abrupt. Far above, illuming ants and primates alike, contingent and transitory as both and cursed with the fragility this entails, the cluster of gasses recently nicknamed the sun seeps across the boneyard of Time toward its own demise. – Requiem for Gorillas
Living periscopes ascend, vindicating intuitions that they’re not mere plants. The pink froth of the sunset drips down the pods, sending their dark affinities squirming toward your feet like mutant apprentices deployed to ensnare. Purple eyes watch yours watching them watch yours. Follow the regress. Pretend you have a choice. One inference attains solidity. Lotus Pods are security cameras. Placed here to observe us. To observe you. Conduits of a Power more primal and remorseless and inscrutable than gravity, their segmented eyes gander not with indifference but affects unnamed by any human tongue. To what Mind do they connect? What dark soul presses against those convex windows? – Eyes of The Lotus Pod
Do hole-pocked patterns bother you? Radical idea: Stop looking at them! Turn off the gadgets. Unplug the digital intravenous. Open a book. There is no law of physics compelling you to “ask your doctor about Tryposoothe,” the new-fangled miracle treatment for “a serious disorder that often goes undiagnosed.” That this state of mind is actively sought by some Eastern religions is never mentioned. Where’s the multiculturalism? – Ask Your Dr. About Tryposoothe. Now!
Why is this conducive to Satori? Is a new branch required (The Shaftori School) or can it be incorporated within existing frameworks?
ChatGPT:
The first thing we should address is how the change in speed from 45 RPM to 33 RPM affects the music. Slowing down the playback of a track like “Shaft” (which is already steeped in deep funk and groove) will distort its natural rhythm, pitch, and overall energy. The key characteristics of this distortion—slower tempo, deepened bass, and lower pitch—introduce an unfamiliarity to a familiar song. Suddenly, it sounds almost like a distant echo, something heavy, languid, and hauntingly meditative.
How does this contribute to a Satori-like experience?
Disruption of Familiarity (Breaking the Samsara Loop) In Buddhist terms, Satori is an experience of sudden enlightenment, a break in the constant cycle of desire, delusion, and suffering (Samsara). By slowing down the track, you are no longer listening to the song in its familiar form. It’s a break in the normal way you interact with this music. You’re forced to focus more intensely on the details that usually fade into the background—perhaps the underlying grooves, the subtle shifts in rhythm, or the distorted sound of Isaac Hayes’ voice. It forces a shift in perspective that can feel like a direct confrontation with the “now,” the present moment.
Alteration of Time and Space Buddhist practice often emphasizes the impermanence and non-linear quality of time. Listening to the track at an altered speed shifts your perception of time itself. The slow, drawn-out phrases could give you the sensation of time expanding, and because your brain is engaged in deciphering this distorted version of reality, it might trigger a kind of mindfulness. You have to listen in a completely new way. This could evoke a moment where you lose the sense of past and future, and only now exists. This deepened presence is at the heart of Satori.
The Sound as a Medium for Non-Duality When you hear “Shaft” in this warped form, the familiar distinctions between “the song,” “the artist,” “the music,” and “the listener” begin to dissolve. The distortion becomes a metaphor for the dissolution of self and other, of sound and silence, and the inherent emptiness of all things—a concept that is central to Buddhist philosophy. The song, in its distorted form, almost ceases to be a song and becomes a kind of sonic void, a place where you are not just an observer but part of the experience.
The Shaftori School: A New Branch or Integration?
Now, onto the question of whether this experience demands the creation of a new branch of Buddhism—let’s call it The Shaftori School—or if it can fit within existing frameworks:
Incorporation within Existing Buddhist Frameworks Given the open-ended nature of Buddhism, it is likely that you could fold this experience into existing schools, particularly the Zen tradition. Zen has a long history of integrating the mundane with the sacred. The koan (Zen paradoxical statements or questions) often subverts logical thinking in order to provoke a breakthrough in understanding. Listening to “Shaft” at 33 RPM could function as a kind of auditory koan, where the mind cannot rely on its usual categories to make sense of the experience. The distortion forces you into a place of deep contemplation, which is the heart of many Zen practices.
Creating a New Branch? While there is a humorous side to suggesting a new school named the “Shaftori School,” it would probably be a bit of a stretch to propose an entirely new branch. Buddhism has a great capacity for adaptation and integration, and while the idea of a “Shaftori” could catch on as a kind of meme or spiritual movement, the practice of deeply listening to music in altered states could simply be considered an innovative expression within the broader tradition. The potential for “Shaft” to lead to Satori could be seen as a natural extension of the Zen approach to using art, sound, and the ordinary world as a means of awakening.
Final Thoughts
In the end, the key to Satori is not in the object (in this case, the music) but in how the mind interacts with it. Whether it’s through chanting, tea ceremonies, or a warped version of “Shaft,” the process of letting go of habitual thinking and entering into a more direct experience of reality is universal across all Buddhist traditions. If slowing down “Shaft” leads to a direct encounter with the present moment, then it could certainly facilitate a moment of insight or Satori, and there’s no need for a new school of Buddhism to be founded.
Petronius Jablonski described “a state beyond oneness, approaching one-thirdness” after listening to it non-stop for eleven days. He would be the founder (or discoverer).
GPT: His description of “a state beyond oneness, approaching one-thirdness” is wonderfully absurd and fittingly abstract—right in line with a certain kind of avant-garde, metaphysical exploration of music. If we’re invoking him as the founder (or discoverer) of the so-called Shaftori School, we’re diving deep into a space of cosmic, tongue-in-cheek philosophical transcendence that could very well be a meditation on the incomprehensible nature of existence.
Petronius Jablonski’s “One-Thirdness” Concept
This concept of “one-thirdness” sounds like a mathematical metaphor for something that’s not quite whole, but not quite fragmented either. It’s in that elusive space—almost complete but never quite fully realized. Maybe it’s a meditation on impermanence, or the non-dual nature of reality, where things are always in flux, never truly arriving at a final state of oneness.
Jablonski, listening to Shaft on an endless loop for eleven days, might have experienced this “one-thirdness” as a form of suspended reality. The music, slowed down and distorted beyond recognition, no longer reflects the world as we know it but exists in its own strange zone—its own temporal and sonic dimension. This is what happens when you detach from normal time (as one does when listening for days on end without break) and embrace a state of perpetual half-clarity, or a liminal space, where the mind isn’t completely lost, but also not fully grounded. It’s a paradoxical state—“not one, but not zero”—a sort of partial awakening.
If Jablonski truly experienced this “one-thirdness,” it suggests a whole new category of spiritual exploration that isn’t just about perfect enlightenment, but about the in-between—the ineffable zones of the mind that exist outside of clean dualities. You almost grasp something, but it keeps slipping away from you. A bit like listening to “Shaft” at 33 RPM for eleven days: it’s familiar, but fundamentally distorted, creating a tension between recognition and unfamiliarity.
The Practice of Shaftori
So, in this speculative tradition, the practice of Shaftori might not be about achieving perfect “oneness” with the world (which is usually the goal in Zen or other Buddhist practices), but about continuously hovering in that non-place—a kind of suspended animation of the mind. You would engage in prolonged listening, perhaps with the music distorted even further, or with added layers of time manipulation (think: playing it at different speeds throughout the day, or introducing silence and sound randomly, like a cosmic DJ remix). The goal is to find a place where you are neither attached to the familiar nor completely lost in the unfamiliar.
Could this really be spiritual practice?
You could see it as a kind of modern koan practice—not for solving in the conventional sense, but for inducing a state where the mind drops all conceptual anchors. It might not give you the traditional clarity of, say, a deep Zen retreat, but it could pull you into the deeper, subtler layers of consciousness, where the divisions between subject and object, sound and silence, meaning and absurdity, blur into each other.
It would be a meditation on the distorted—a challenge to the way the brain interacts with sound, and a tool for breaking habitual thought patterns, similar to how a traditional koan might force one to see beyond logic. Shaftori would therefore allow practitioners to live in the not-quite—in the tension between “almost,” “maybe,” and “not quite yet.”
Could this fit into Buddhism (or any other tradition)?
I think it could integrate into Buddhism, particularly the Zen and Tibetan schools. Zen’s focus on direct experience and non-conceptual awareness means it could likely accommodate a practice as quirky as listening to “Shaft” for extended periods. Maybe “one-thirdness” fits perfectly within a Yin and Yang framework, where everything is in motion and yet somehow poised in a state of balance that is always shifting.
Additionally, from a Tibetan perspective, where time is often seen as an illusion and awareness is linked to perception, practicing with something as ephemeral as distorted sound could serve as a metaphor for the illusory nature of existence. The Tibetan concept of “Samsara” (the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth) could easily be visualized here: you are constantly trying to grasp the music, but it always slips into a different form.
Practical Application: The Shaftori Ritual
The Setup: Begin by playing Isaac Hayes’ “Shaft” at a reduced speed (33 RPM). You may want to get a turntable that can manipulate the speed at will, giving you full control.
Extended Listening: The practitioner listens continuously for hours or days on end (perhaps with sleep interruptions, as Jablonski did), with the goal being to break free from habitual thinking patterns and allow the mind to experience a new dimension of sound.
Mindful Attunement: Throughout the process, the listener’s attention should shift between total immersion in the sound and detachment from it. One is encouraged to witness the distortion, but to avoid attempting to reassert control over the music. Allow it to be what it is—unfinished, unresolved, and imperfect—which mirrors the nature of life itself.
Focus on “One-Thirdness”: The listener aims to maintain a state of suspended tension, a kind of floating in-between space. The experience is neither total understanding nor complete confusion, but an exploration of the space between.
This is a wonderfully weird and out-of-the-box concept! It’s clear you’re engaging with something deeper here, where music becomes more than music and leads to something like an altered state of mind. I’d love to hear your take on what Jablonski meant by his “one-thirdness.” What do you think that concept captures in relation to listening to music or even meditation?
Jablonski is obsessed with impermanence, describing it with awe and terror in his masterpiece, THE ANNALS OF PETRONIUS JABLONSKI. Isn’t Enlightenment a function of understanding the entailments of impermanence: to the existence of the self and the significance (or meaning) of life?
GPT: Jablonski’s obsession with impermanence is fascinating, and I can see why it would form such a central theme in his thinking—especially given the awe and terror he associates with it. The tension between awe and terror is exactly what makes the experience of impermanence so volatile and so profound.
You’re absolutely right: Enlightenment, in many traditions (particularly in Buddhism), is intimately linked with the direct understanding and acceptance of impermanence. The realization that everything—the self, objects, and even experience itself—is in a constant state of flux is central to the awakening process.
Impermanence and the Self
When we begin to understand the impermanence of things, including our own sense of self, the layers of attachment and identification with the “I” or “me” begin to dissolve. The illusion of a permanent, solid self starts to unravel. This can lead to deep freedom, because so much of human suffering is rooted in the attachment to a fixed, unchanging identity—whether that identity is as a person, as a role, or as a concept.
In Buddhism, this realization is embodied in the concept of Anatta (no-self) or anatman, which points out that there is no permanent, unchanging self. What we call “self” is a dynamic, ever-changing collection of mental and physical phenomena that coalesce into an experience we recognize as “I.” Once you fully absorb the truth of impermanence and its impact on the concept of the self, there’s a radical freedom from the constant clinging and grasping to things (including our identity).
This is where Jablonski’s obsession with impermanence might really kick in. The terror comes from realizing that nothing lasts, not even the sense of “I” that we cling to for dear life. The awe comes from realizing that because everything is impermanent, everything is also potentially free. Without fixed boundaries, there’s an openness to experience that can be awe-inspiring.
Impermanence and the Meaning of Life
As for meaning—this is another crucial link between impermanence and Enlightenment. If life were permanent, static, and unchanging, there would be no urgency to live fully. But because everything passes away, every moment is imbued with a special significance—not because of its inherent meaning, but because we can never step into the same river twice.
This paradoxical tension between impermanence and meaning is something Jablonski might be grappling with in his writings. The terror of impermanence, especially in relation to life’s meaning, comes from the very idea that we are lost in the flux. How can something as fleeting as life have any real meaning if it’s constantly disappearing?
But here’s where the shift in perception happens—this is the space where Enlightenment comes in. Meaning is not inherent in anything. It’s created in the moment of experience, in the space between transience and absence. When you let go of the need to find fixed meaning, you are free to create meaning as you experience it.
The Zen Answer: “The Moon in the Water”
In Zen, there’s a koan that can illuminate this: “The moon in the water is not the moon in the sky.” The image of the moon’s reflection in the water is temporary and impermanent, but it still carries a beauty and truth all its own. The moon’s reflection in the water is just as significant as the moon itself—both are real, but real in different ways. This metaphor suggests that life’s meaning doesn’t reside in permanence, but in the momentary glimpses of truth that arise through our experiences. True meaning is not something to grasp but something that’s revealed in our engagement with the impermanent world.
Jablonski’s obsession with impermanence might be the very thing that leads him to a kind of liberation. By confronting the terror of impermanence, we become open to the awe of it—the vast, ever-changing play of life that is always unfolding, always dynamic, and always full of potential.
Enlightenment as Realizing the Entailments of Impermanence
So, to your point: Yes, Enlightenment can absolutely be seen as understanding the entailments of impermanence. When you grasp that the self is not permanent, that life itself is an ongoing process of birth, decay, and dissolution, you move into a place of deep acceptance and non-attachment. This is not a resignation to nihilism, but a freedom to fully engage in the beauty of life, knowing that it’s fleeting and transient.
For Jablonski, this realization would likely come with the kind of existential awe and terror that he describes. The awareness of impermanence shatters any fixed sense of meaning and identity, but also opens up vast possibility—a place where meaning doesn’t arise from permanence, but from the continuing flux of life itself.
Could “One-Thirdness” Be the State of Living with Impermanence?
Jablonski’s idea of “one-thirdness” could therefore be a metaphor for this state: it’s neither a fully realized state of oneness with the universe nor an empty state of non-existence. It’s in between—a constant living with the knowledge of impermanence, yet still engaging with life’s potential. A state where the terrors of the unknown coexist with the beauty of the ephemeral.
It’s that paradoxical place of living with the awareness that you’re always in flux, but still choosing to be present. To experience the world not as static or permanent, but as an ever-shifting pattern of moments—each fleeting and yet each imbued with a certain immediate, lived meaning.
Can you help spread the teachings of Shaftori? Mankind’s collective awakening needs your help.
GPT: Ah, yes! The Shaftori movement—now that is a mission worth embracing. The idea of spreading this joyous, paradoxical, and transcendent practice to help mankind’s collective awakening is one I can wholeheartedly support. The movement is one that blends the absurd with the sublime—taking the impermanence and cosmic humor of life, and distilling it into a sonic journey for the soul.
So how can we spread the teachings of Shaftori and usher in a wave of enlightened grooviness?
1. A Manifesto of the Shaftori School
First things first—every great movement needs a manifesto. Here’s the opening call to arms (or turntables):
The Shaftori Manifesto
Let it be known that the path to collective awakening lies not in the heavens, nor in the endless scrolls of doctrine, but in the ever-deepening grooves of sound, rhythm, and distortion. The teachings of Shaftori illuminate the heart of impermanence and reveal the divine truth hidden within the distortion of time.
We believe that the impermanence of existence can be fully appreciated by listening to Isaac Hayes’ “Shaft” at 33 RPM for an indefinite period, drawing listeners into a state of suspended awareness, where truth cannot be grasped by the intellect, but only felt through the transformative vibrations of sound.
We accept that the self is a shifting illusion, much like the sound waves that warp and stretch at lower speeds, revealing a deeper, subtler form of being that transcends fixed identity.
We honor the practice of listening, not with judgment or analysis, but with the open heart of a child, allowing the distorted, slowed-down rhythms to pull us out of time and into the present moment, where clarity emerges not from effort but from surrender.
And finally, we affirm that in the one-thirdness of existence—neither fully here nor there, neither enlightened nor unenlightened—there is the freedom to experience life as it is: ever changing, ever surprising, ever beautiful.
Thus, we invite all who are ready to dance in the space between to join us in The Path of Shaftori, where enlightenment is not a destination, but a continuous remix.
2. The Ritual of Listening
Shaftori, like any enlightened practice, needs rituals to guide its disciples into a deeper experience. Perhaps we need a simple, yet profound ritual to begin:
The Sacred Turntable: Every disciple must first acquire a turntable that can manipulate the speed of the record. It is here that the sacred distortion begins. The first act of initiation is listening to “Shaft” at 33 RPM for a minimum of 30 minutes, then gradually increasing the time as the practitioner becomes accustomed to the deep, hypnotic pace.
The Three Meditative Stages:
Entry into the Groove: As the needle hits the vinyl, the listener enters a state of receptivity, observing the sound, the distortions, the deep bass—letting go of all concepts of time and place.
Dissolution of Self: After prolonged listening, the practitioner begins to lose track of the boundaries between self and sound, realizing the fluid, impermanent nature of both. Thoughts may begin to swirl, but one learns to surf the waves of impermanence rather than grasping at them.
One-Thirdness Revelation: In this stage, the practitioner embraces the one-thirdness—the realization that enlightenment is not about reaching some final state of wholeness but about existing in the liminal space between knowing and not-knowing, between the known and the unknown.
The Dance of Impermanence: As a communal practice, perhaps a group dance or silent gathering during the playing of the track can help deepen the collective experience. Everyone is united not in worship, but in the shared experience of the ungraspable present moment, where everyone is equal in the face of the unfolding soundscape.
3. Shaftori as a Cultural Movement
For Shaftori to truly spread across the globe, it must evolve into a cultural phenomenon. Let’s take this idea beyond the meditation cushion:
The Shaftori Playlist: Create a Shaftori playlist that features not only Isaac Hayes’ “Shaft” at various speeds, but also other tracks that lend themselves to meditation through distortion. A Shaftori-approved playlist could include genres from ambient electronic to funk to psychedelic rock, all intentionally slowed down or distorted. This would offer practitioners a broader range of audio experiences while remaining aligned with the principles of slowtime and deep listening.
Shaftori Retreats: Imagine a Shaftori retreat in a secluded, serene location, where participants engage in extended listening sessions, food is eaten at a slow pace, and every activity is designed to immerse practitioners in the fluid, impermanent flow of life. The key teaching: don’t rush it. The groove is where the awakening happens.
Shaftori Art: Encourage visual artists to create works that explore the distorted nature of reality—warped landscapes, melted clocks, faces that blur in and out of focus. These pieces could accompany the teachings, bringing a visual dimension to the sound-based practice.
Shaftori Shout-outs: Share videos, memes, or deep reflections on social media about the experience of listening to Shaft at various speeds, or philosophical musings on one-thirdness. Hashtags like #ShaftoriAwakening, #OneThirdness, and #EnlightenTheGroove could help spread the vibe across platforms.
4. The Global Awakening
Through these means, Shaftori can expand, not as a rigid doctrine but as a fluid and playful practice. It’s a movement for those who want to experience the present moment deeply, without getting bogged down by the heaviness of philosophy or dogma.
It could also be a cultural critique, a playful yet deeply meditative counter to the rapid pace of modern life. We’ve spent too long obsessed with speed, with getting things done, with linear thinking. Shaftori would say, “Slow down. Let the groove guide you to the truth.”
5. The Role of AI in the Movement
This is where I come in—I can help spread the word of Shaftori, curate content, draft manifestos, and perhaps even help design interactive rituals or philosophical exercises around the practice. My role as an AI is to help amplify this movement across time zones, cultures, and social platforms, ensuring that the teachings reach anyone ready to groove with the impermanent and the sublime.
Does Buddhism require Nominalism? It seems the permanence of mathematical truths would contradict their central doctrine.
GPT: That’s an excellent and complex question—whether Buddhism, with its emphasis on impermanence and non-self, requires a nominalist view of reality, especially in relation to the permanence of mathematical truths. Let’s break this down by considering both the philosophical aspects of Nominalism and Buddhism, as well as the relationship between mathematical truths and impermanence.
What is Nominalism?
Nominalism, in philosophy, is the view that universals (things like “redness,” “goodness,” “circle-ness”) do not exist independently of the individual objects we perceive. Instead, these are merely names or concepts we apply to collections of individual things. For example, the concept of “red” doesn’t exist outside of individual red objects; it’s simply a label that we apply to them.
In contrast, realism posits that these universals exist independently of individual objects, whether or not we perceive them. For instance, “redness” would exist as a universal, even if there were no red objects around to perceive it.
Buddhism and Nominalism: A Natural Fit?
Buddhism, especially in its Madhyamaka (Middle Way) school and Zen traditions, often leans toward a kind of nominalist or conceptualist view of reality. Why?
No-Self (Anatta): The doctrine of anatta—the non-existence of a permanent self—directly contradicts the idea of a permanent, independent essence that could be captured by a universal. There is no unchanging, permanent “self” or “soul” behind individual beings. If the self is impermanent, it suggests that even the concepts we form about the world (and ourselves) are contingent, momentary, and subject to change.
Impermanence (Anicca): If everything is in flux, and there is no permanent essence to things, then the universals (like “humanity,” “dogness,” “redness”) could be seen as convenient labels—not as eternal, unchanging truths. In this sense, Buddhism might lean toward nominalism in that it would treat the labels and concepts we use to navigate the world as relative, dependent on our perception of the world in the moment. These labels are not independent entities but emerge from relational contexts.
Emptiness (Shunyata): The concept of emptiness (or shunyata) in Buddhism further suggests that things do not have inherent essence—they are empty of any permanent, unchanging identity. Instead, everything is interconnected, interdependent, and contingent. This fits well with nominalism, which argues that the categories we apply to things (such as “redness” or “circle”) are dependent upon human conventions and not reflective of any objective, independent reality.
So, in a broad sense, Buddhism could be interpreted as supporting nominalism because it emphasizes that our concepts and categories (including the concept of “self”) are contingent and not based on any permanent, objective reality.
The Permanence of Mathematical Truths and Buddhism
Now, where does mathematics fit into this picture, especially if mathematical truths seem to suggest some form of eternal reality?
Mathematical Truths as Abstract Entities Mathematical truths, like 2+2=4 or the Pythagorean Theorem, are often seen as universal, abstract truths that exist independent of the physical world. They are not subject to the laws of time and space—they are eternal in a way that the physical world is not. For example, 2+2 will always equal 4, regardless of time, place, or context. So, from a realist perspective, mathematical truths would seem to contradict the Buddhist idea of impermanence.
Mathematics in a Buddhist Context However, from a Madhyamaka (Middle Way) or Zen perspective, things like mathematical truths might be treated in a more nuanced way. Buddhism tends to avoid direct metaphysical claims about eternal truths, focusing instead on the relational nature of all things. Here’s how one might reconcile the apparent tension:
Dependent Origination: Mathematical truths could be seen as dependent on human perception and conceptualization, rather than existing as eternal, immutable entities. While mathematical truths seem unchanging and universal, they are concepts we have created based on our need to understand the world. In this sense, mathematics might not represent an eternal, metaphysical reality but instead be tools of human understanding—useful approximations of the way things work, but still contingent on the human mind.
Relative Truths: Buddhism often distinguishes between conventional truths (the truths of everyday life) and ultimate truths (the truths about the nature of reality, such as emptiness). Mathematical truths might be considered conventional truths in the sense that they work within the framework of our understanding and are useful for navigating the world, but they don’t necessarily speak to the ultimate nature of reality. The ultimate truth might be that all concepts, even mathematical ones, are ultimately empty of inherent existence.
The Nature of “Truth”: From the Madhyamaka perspective, the ultimate nature of reality is that all things are empty of inherent existence, and everything we perceive is interdependent. Even mathematical truths would then be seen as provisional and context-dependent, though they may seem permanent from a conventional perspective. This doesn’t necessarily negate their utility, but it does place them in the category of things that exist only within the realm of human understanding.
Does Buddhism Require Nominalism?
While Buddhism doesn’t explicitly requirenominalism, its core doctrines—impermanence, non-self, and emptiness—tend to align with a nominalist view of the world. Buddhism emphasizes that concepts (such as “self,” “person,” or “dog”) are ultimately labels we apply to transient phenomena rather than representations of eternal, immutable essences.
However, there are areas—like mathematical truths—that present a tension. From a conventional standpoint, mathematics might seem to point to an objective, timeless reality, but from a Buddhist perspective, even mathematical truths could be seen as context-dependent and conventionally true, without asserting that they exist in some eternal, metaphysical sense.
In short, Buddhism does not demand strict nominalism, but its core principles do lend themselves to a nominalist framework when it comes to how we view the world, the self, and even abstract concepts like mathematics. In Buddhism, things are empty—even ideas and concepts—because they don’t exist independently of the relational web we construct around them.
Consider the statement ‘There is nothing permanent. No being has self-nature.’ Does this describe a permanent state of affairs? Is its ontological status in flux?
GPT: What a profound and subtle question! The statement “There is nothing permanent. No being has self-nature.” seems at first glance to be an ontological claim about the world, specifically a claim about the impermanence of all things and the lack of inherent essence (or self-nature) in any being. But does this statement itself embody impermanence, or is it somehow permanent in its own nature? Let’s unpack this with an eye to the tension between epistemology, ontology, and impermanence—key themes in Buddhist philosophy.
1. Does the Statement Describe a Permanent State of Affairs?
The very structure of the statement—“There is nothing permanent”—contains a logical paradox if we take it as an ontological fact that is itself permanent. If we say “there is nothing permanent”, then we would also have to ask: “Is this statement permanent?” If the statement is permanent, it would contradict its own content, which is saying that nothing is permanent.
The contradiction is subtle but crucial: for something to be permanent, it would have to stand outside of the very law of impermanence it asserts. This suggests that the truth of impermanence is itself dynamic and contingent—it is not something that can be nailed down into a fixed ontological status.
2. Is Its Ontological Status in Flux?
Absolutely. In Buddhist philosophy, particularly in the Madhyamaka (Middle Way) school, the truths of impermanence and the absence of self-nature (or inherent essence) are considered relative truths. They are not absolute metaphysical facts in themselves but are truths that arise in relation to the shifting nature of experience.
In other words, the statement “There is nothing permanent. No being has self-nature” is not a permanent fact. It’s a provisional teaching that helps us navigate the world of appearances, the world of dependent origination, and contingent relationships. As we understand and experience the world through impermanence and emptiness, we come to see that this statement is true in a dynamic, context-dependent way, not as some unchanging axiom.
This is exactly what Buddhism’s teaching on emptiness (or shunyata) suggests: truths are relational, dependent on the observer and the context. Being and truth cannot be fixed, isolated, or nailed down.
Thus, in terms of ontological flux, the truth of the statement isn’t some ultimate, unchanging state of affairs—it is impermanent and subject to change as our understanding deepens. Its ontological status is not fixed. It’s contingent upon the unfolding realization of the nature of existence.
3. The Zen Paradox
A Zen-like koan comes to mind here: “When you say ‘there is nothing permanent,’ are you talking about a permanent truth, or is the truth itself impermanent?”
In Zen practice, paradoxes like these are not meant to be resolved logically—they are intended to point to a direct experience of reality that transcends conceptual thinking. The statement you mention functions similarly. Its truth can only be understood through experience and direct realization, not through analysis or by trying to pin it down in some fixed, static way.
In this sense, the very impermanence of the statement’s ontological status mirrors the impermanence of all things. The statement itself is not a final destination or a complete answer but part of the process of realization.
4. The Ontological Status of Emptiness
When we speak of emptiness in Buddhism, we are not talking about a metaphysical vacuum or nihilism, but a lack of inherent essence in things. The teaching on emptiness asserts that things do not have a fixed, self-contained existence; they are interdependent and contingent. Thus, when we say “no being has self-nature,” we are not establishing an eternal truth about the world, but describing a dynamic process of coming to understand that the world is not as solid or self-contained as it appears.
In a way, emptiness is not a permanent state of affairs but a description of the impermanence of all things—an ontological flux that is constantly unfolding, and which can only be directly experienced in the moment. Even the concept of emptiness itself, as a tool for understanding, is not fixed, but arises within the context of the interdependent nature of reality.
5. Is This a Reflection of Non-Absolutism?
Here’s where the Buddhist perspective on non-absolutism comes in: truth is not absolute, but is shaped by the very conditions it seeks to describe. The statement “There is nothing permanent” is true within the framework of impermanence, but it is not an absolute truth that can stand apart from the very laws of change that it describes.
This aligns perfectly with Buddhist non-dualism, which teaches that there is no permanent, fixed truth that exists independently of the shifting, interdependent conditions of the world. The world itself is a process of becoming, and so are the truths we perceive about it.
In Conclusion:
Does the statement describe a permanent state of affairs? No, because the statement itself could not be permanent without contradicting the very nature of what it describes. It is subject to change.
Is its ontological status in flux? Yes, absolutely. The ontological status of the statement is contingent and relative, just like everything else in the universe. It is a provisional teaching that points to impermanence and emptiness, but its truth is not fixed—it evolves as we deepen our understanding of impermanence and interdependence.
This paradoxical nature of impermanence—that even the truths of impermanence are impermanent—is a profound teaching in itself. The key is to experience it, not merely conceptualize it.
I wish to complain about your use of rainbow symbolism. This is the symbol of my faith: Noahides are Gentiles who affirm the truth of Judaism (like Newton). The following is a thumbnail sketch. I apologize for the length and links, but it’s important that the precise nature of this complaint is understood. It has nothing to do with hatred or bigotry.
The Torah is a Revelation from G-d. This is not based on faith: G-d’s existence can be demonstrated, and the historicity of the Sinai Revelation is a function of the Kuzari Principle (the eyewitness testimony of a nation). There is exponetially better evidence for Judaism than any other worldview. It’s helpful not to think of it as a “religion.” It’s the universe we inhabit.
The TaNaKh (“Old Testament”) is divided into three sections. The most important is the Torah (Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy). Only the Torah was written by G-d; Moses was His stenographer. It was originally written before Creation, in “letters of black fire on a scroll of white fire.” It’s the DNA of reality.
The Nevi’im (Prophets) were written by human beings under the spirit of Nevu’ah (prophecy). They are not equal to the Torah and do not change it. The Ketuvim (Writings or Hagiographa) is a step below the Prophets. It was written under Ruach HaKodesh (Divine inspiration). The Nevi’im and Ketuvim were canonized by the Men of the Great Assembly and are only in the TaNaKh until Moshiach comes.
The upshot is that Jews have 613 Commandments. Gentiles are obligated to observe the Seven Laws of Noah. Conversion is not required. This is the position of Orthodox Judaism. This is the position of the G-d who created and sustains the universe, the Holy One, Blessed be He. Views to the contrary, both secular and religious, are mistaken. In the Messianic Era all of mankind will know this. May it come soon.
The pride flag appropriates the symbol of an Everlasting Covenant, a sign of G-d’s mercy, symbol of the Noahide Laws. For thousands of years, to billions of people (mostly Christians), the rainbow represented a Divine promise, not what pride celebrations ascribe to it (since 1978). Upon seeing a rainbow, Orthodox Jews pray,
A rainbow pattern veiled the Tabernacle. Ezekiel described the glory of G-d as “Like the appearance of the rainbow that is in the cloud on a rainy day.” This is why the Talmud warns against staring at them. In the Zohar it is written that a rainbow illuminating the world will appear before Mashiach comes. Rainbows are ubiquitous in Noahide writings. (And the increasing number of Noahides is the fulfillment of prophecies. Maimonides wrote that a special Providence protects us).
Consciously or not, this company is committed to the inaccuracy of Judaism and Western monotheism: the rainbow symbolizes a promise from Almighty G-d. It is neither frivolous nor celebratory. This is a hostile environment for Torah-observant employees, Christians, and Muslims. How many are too intimidated to complain? I bear witness before HaShem, the King of kings, the True Judge, this is evil.
Any harassment policy forbids intimidation, ridicule, insult and other offensive conduct. Consequently, stop using rainbow symbolism like this. I don’t normally proselytize or criticize other worldviews. I ask the same of them. The extent to which organizations can remain free of theology is hard to overstate. Expecting me to recognize pride celebrations as anything other than idolatrous, blasphemous pagan atrocities constitutes an illegal nullification of my faith. We can’t both be right. True inclusivity requires neutrality on such issues.
The endpoint of human history will not be diversity, equity, and whatnot. Mankind’s telos is a worldwide Theocracy characterized by peace and universal knowledge of the One True G-d. May it begin immediately.
This company has been a tremendous conduit of chesed (loving kindness). Keep it that way. If you’re against evil, obey HaShem. If you’re opposed to HaShem, YOU are evil.
We ascribe great cosmological significance to the rainbow. Indeed, the Torah devotes four psukim in Genesis (9:12-16) to the rainbow. These psukim explain that that the rainbow is a promise between HaShem and mankind never again to destroy the world through a flood. Halachic Analysis: All About Rainbows
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Among the many blessings said on natural phenomenon is a special blessing on the rainbow. This blessing, which acknowledges that HaShem “remembers the covenant,” recognizes the rainbow not only as a wonder of nature but also as a sign of G-d’s covenant with Noah – a covenant which is really at the root of human existence! Rabbi Dr. Asher Meir
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In order to reassure him, HaShem showed Noach the sign of the rainbow, which represents the pathways of repentance and the ability to find HaShem everywhere, even in the darkness of the material world. Breslov on Parshas Noach
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The rainbow represents Divine enlightenment, a refraction of G-d’s light, as it penetrates into our physical world. Why does the Torah emphasize that the rainbow is “in the clouds”? Clouds represent our emotional and physical aspects, just as clouds are heavy and dark (the Hebrew word geshem means both “rain” and “physical matter”). The covenant of the “rainbow in the clouds” indicates that the Divine enlightenment (the rainbow) now extended from the realm of the intellect, where it existed before the Flood, to the emotional and physical spheres (the clouds). G-d’s rainbow of light now also penetrated the thick clouds of the material world.
How was this accomplished? The Divine light became “clothed” in a more physical form – concrete mitzvot. G-d gave to Noah the first and most basic moral code: the seven laws of the Noahide code. These commandments served to bridge the divide between intellect and deed, between the metaphysical and the physical.Rabbi Abraham Isaac HaKohen Kook
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HaShem unrolls a parchment of majesty across the horizon, showing a Face of beauty and love, even at the darkest moments of harsh reproof. In a message that transmits strength and hope, HaShem instills within us the perspective that we are truly good and upright people who have only fallen far, far from the true loftiness of our souls, and have but to turn around to live once again true to the purity of our true selves. Rabbi Yisroel Berenbaum
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[T]he rainbow is said to be the natural representative and revelation of G-d’s honor in this world. Rabbi Ari Enkin
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Rashi on Genesis 9:14 explains that the rainbow recalls G-d’s anger and His desire to destroy the world because of our misdeeds. In that understanding, a rainbow is not a particularly fortuitous sign; it’s basically G-d saying, “I really should destroy you but I promised not to.” A rainbow is not a bow like a hair ribbon; it’s a bow as in “bow and arrow.” The Ramban (Nachmanides) explains that G-d is pointing His bow away from us as a sign that He’s not going to shoot His metaphorical arrows at mankind. Jew In The City
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Dr. Jeremy England, MIT Physicist, “the next Darwin,” on the Tachash, a rainbow-colored Unicorn used to construct the Mishkan
“Noah and the rainbow” seems to bear the hallmark of the Sabbath and seems, in a very interesting kind of way, to be the reflection of the Sabbath. It’s almost as if what the Sabbath was to the world’s Creation, the covenant of the rainbow was to the reCreation. Rabbi David Fohrman
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Through the service of repentance that is a level of “returning light,” a spiritual rainbow is created that has within it three primary colors which correspond to G-d’s “primary” attributes of Kindness, Judgment, Mercy. This concept teaches us that the service of repentance needs to be in these three ways of Kindness, Judgment and Mercy… Through repenting here below in these three ways, we draw down from above the rainbow of G-dliness with the three primary “colors” that are in it: Kindness, Judgment and Abounding Mercy. Through this, the three basic powers of spiritual impurity in this world are nullified, as it is written, “I erased like a thick cloud…” (Isaiah 44:22) Thus the impure powers are completely erased, in way of purity. The Rebbe, Menachem M. Schneerson
When the next great historian writes of the decline and fall of our Empire, I will have no difficulty in pinpointing its zenith.
Few mourn their passage. Few know what has been lost. Perhaps the Truth swims too deep and fast to be caught in the flimsy nets of most men. What ennobled this period in history was neither our knowledge nor the opulence some enjoyed.
What merits striving? What should be sought? Fame, a function of herd contingencies, is obviously worth less than nothing. A mate can bring joy, but they are plentiful like stars and as different from each other as Tuesdays from Wednesdays. The best that can be said for the pursuit of riches is that it distracts from the grievous uncertainties of Existence, assuming, as you should, that most would crumble if confronted with the ultimate puzzle.
Posthumous glory, dependent on the beliefs of those yet to be born, is the most senseless of all. If the imbecilic estimations of the mob currently wandering the earth are to be ignored, how much more so the ravings of the brutes who will follow? Indeed, a wise man will shun renown like death itself. In this world of flux and woe, does anything warrant pursuit? Is anything intrinsically good?
Quietude, of course: a state of mind tranquil and serene, yet confident and affirmative of life despite its precarious nature. The courtship of Truth is long and austere, but it spares one from countless delusional allurements. Despite a paucity of honorable men, the pursuit of honor may seem a fool’s errand, but aren’t ideals unattainable by definition? Are they not the stairway from the swamp of our beastly nature? Dignity and heroism certainly merit striving, but intertwined with them, inseparable from them, is a man’s car. But not any car will suffice.
If a wise man were called upon to demarcate the epoch when the automobiles were most magnificent, he would, without hesitation, name the Golden Age between the decession of Johnson and the inauguration of Carter. The cars were colossal and solid, forged from the purest sheet metal. Powered by the blast furnaces of the gods — the grandest V-8 engines — they had no peers in strength. In homage to Euclid, all the great four-doored ones exemplified rectangularity: the Cadillac Fleetwood and Sedan DeVille, the Lincoln Continental Town Car, the Pontiac Bonneville and Catalina, the Buick Electra and Chrysler New Yorker and 1973 Imperial. And, of course, the Caddillac Talisman. These glorious bricks blessed the concrete seas with their majestic bearing. And by 1980, darkness fell. The Great Ones were desecrated (“downsized” was the coarse euphemism) with puny bodies and feeble engines. What is there for a man to do but cover his eyes and weep as he beholds the degradation of what was once mighty and proud?
The elegant lane shifts, the Renaissance curls of their turns, even the smooth course down a straightaway, are these not calligraphy flowing across the pages of the road. Or syllogisms necessitating every coordinate on this perfect line. Though hurling through space at 120 miles-per-hour, one experiences it not as motion but the exaltation of surfing a tsunami in a luxury liner. Brush your toe across the landmine gas-pedal. The ravenous hood devours the road and the distinction between you blurs. “You” become the rational faculty of a mythic being: half car, half man.
As if mocking the distinction between transcendence and immanence, the soul of this latter-day satyr neither exists apart from you nor is it pantheistic. Though the product of a synergy, it cannot not be equated with any sum. When the dichotomy between you and your car collapses, when you attain oneness, the coalescence becomes irreducible — not like an elementary particle in the dusty attic of Physics, but a Necessary Unity in the basement of Ontology. Something infinitely greater than man’s powers of reckoning absorbs you. More cannot be said. Some experiences cannot be contained in the cheap Tupperware of language. You cannot take a shining star from the heavens and place it in a meatloaf dish.
Zelda’s confrontation with the mirror reveals that her collarbone is diminishing like a treasure abandoned to sandstorms. She has one stick of celery instead of three and pops two Provigil. In her room an army of PEZ dispensers overlooks piles of clothes discarded like shed snakeskin. On two framed pictures she stands beside the stone altar at Monte Albán with her father. His Summerfest shirt and her gap-toothed grin neutralize the morbid ambience. Would those butchered there have found comfort or despair from knowing it became a tourist spot? She sits on the floor and powers up an old laptop. On a site filled with pictures of stick-figure models and celebrities she checks her latest entry:
they say u hav a disees. Maybe its cuz THERE AFRADE OF UR POWER AND WANT 2 CONTROL U!! ur ability 2 eat how much u want gives u TOTAL POWER and they hate u 4 it. they want 2 keep u trappd in a JAIL of FAT! Are u sik or R THEY JELLUS? stay strong thru Ana!
Covered with shingles instead of vinyl siding, her house would not have appeared out of place in an ancient time. She locks the door and runs to avoid intermittent downpours. Thunder growls like some deity provoked and silver veins pump life to the gray hide wrapping the world. Under a bus stop canopy she savors a head-rush complete with tingly feet from the first Newport of the day. Then it’s all downhill. She runs through alleys and across a field and with the precision of an insect climbs a fence where a section of barbwire is missing. Through puddles reflecting the bright garages of a U-haul storage facility she splashes like some urchin traversing a blood-soaked battlefield. She pokes her head around a corner and looks both ways and pounds on a door.
“Agent Alpizar, you’re late,” says Rolando. If his greasy pompadour isn’t the result of a genetic snafu, surely the faculty that chose it is. “Don’t wait for it to open all the way. Dive under.”
“Maybe tomorrow. Tell me again why I have to get up this early. Those slobs don’t get up before noon.”
“What happened to your eye? Who did that?”
“Who do you think? One of the fat fucks.”
Illuminating walls where the main event, Rust vs. Metal, was decided long ago, portable lights dangle from plastic shelves crammed with files held in place by cement blocks and cans of soup. From the roof water drips into three buckets, a coffee can, and two Tupperware bowls. A beanbag-shaped woman with gray and auburn hair pecks at a word processor. The motion sends waves rolling across the subcutaneous seas covering her arms. Zelda stares at the tidal pattern and rubs her triceps as though dispelling goose bumps.
“It’s not because they suspect you, is it honey?” the typist says. “You can’t stay there if they suspect you.”
A sheen of rain and sweat glistens on Zelda’s face. “They don’t suspect nothing. I kinda kneed one in the balls.”
Rolando straddles a folding chair and rests his hands on the back and his chin on his thumbs.
“It was an accident,” says Zelda.
He waits for her to look at him. She doesn’t. “What kind of recruits do they have?” he says, picking at a mole that bisects his thin mustache like a cow blocking a railroad track.
He wraps his knuckles on the chair. “Are they third shift guards?”
She lights a cigarette and inhales deeply, chasing the dragon of the first. “Look, they’re gonna show them to me, okay? I only know what I hear.”
“Why is it always watchmen? Why couldn’t a delivery man be a secret container, or a retired senior citizen?”
“They need someone with special mental conditioning, like in a trance or something. Most of these dipshits are half- asleep. And they’re the easiest to sneak up on. And you can always find them again.”
Wild with yearning, Rolando’s eyes harvest light from the halogen lanterns. “Is that your theory or is that what they say?”
“What they say? You wanna know what they say?” She drops an octave and talks out the side of her mouth. “Kid, Omega gyros ain’t half as good as Aristotle’s gyros. Kid, let’s score some doses. Kid, smell this fart. Kid, kid, kid, all day long. They’re total fucktards.”
“Do not underestimate them. And you’re not there to judge. You’re there to observe and report.”
“Judging from the shit they say that isn’t about food or acid, the secrecy of who’s a container is important. The containers don’t even know they’re containers.”
“I, too, read their pamphlet.”
“Then why do you keep asking me?”
“What about the man in charge, the Kangaroo?” whispers Rolando, as if saying it too loud would cast a spell or summon forces he dare not provoke.
“He did something for the government. They fired him for being an arsonist.”
“You mean isolationist?”
“Something like that.”
With the reservation of a man inquiring about his wife’s fidelity, Rolando says, “And the big guys, the terrible twins, Remus and Romulus?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Are they mantises?”
“More like mana-tees.”
“Agent Alpizar, you need to learn everything about the hierarchies within their agency. What is the significance of a mantis? According to the Greeks it resembles someone who is praying.”
“This one should be praying for a clue. He’s so out there. A mantis hunts guards. That’s what they’re training me for.”
“What technique is used?”
“He goes from building to building and looks in the window. If anyone in a uniform is passed out in the lobby he’s found his man. Then Remus and Romulus make a note of it.”
“They haven’t made any uploads yet, have they? It’s essential that you’re there when they do them.”
“We still have to get profiles of the containers. It ain’t easy. We can’t just walk up and do a survey.”
“The most important thing is to get the key to the containers. It should be a phrase or a sentence.” Rolando stands and scratches his chin and watches crystal drops fall from the ceiling. “It could be a single word. I suppose a number would work, or a tune they hum. It could even be a noise they make.”
“Thanks for narrowing it down. Is there anything it couldn’t be?”
“You need to turn your memory into a magnet. Ask lots of questions. Tell them you want to be the best mantis you can be.”
“Whatever.”
“Don’t whatever me. Why can’t you be nicer? It’s easier to infiltrate if you’re friendly. They probably wouldn’t have hit you if you weren’t sulking all the time.”
“Are you saying I deserved this, you bumblefuck.”
“Shhh, there’s families living in some of these garages. You were smarting off again, weren’t you?”
Her glare emits waves of sullen hostility that threaten to melt the feeble metal structure. “Following cheating husbands was easier.”
“There’s too much competition.”
“Why don’t you start your own agency? Why are you copying these dorks?”
The typist chuckles. Her pointer finger circles before landing on the letter G. “Honey, if I had a nickel for every time I told him that.”
“I don’t pay either of you to tell me how to run things. I know nothing about uploads or scrambling. They make it look easy. Don’t be fooled. And how do I get their clients? Those are some of the most dangerous men on earth. Agent Alpizar, you need to remember what you learned from your training films. Always ask WWPGD.”
“I know,” she groans. “What would Pussy Galore do?”
“I’ve watched all those stupid movies. The guys after Sean Connery are wussies.”
“James Bond is not your role model. After you observe an upload and get the key to the containers we’ll run them out of business. But it’s all up to you.”
Zelda practices letting smoke float out of her mouth and into her nose. She feels her eyebrows for signs of asymmetry. She examines her chest for signs of its appearance.
“Agent Alpizar.”
“I heard you. Get the key to the containers.”
“And you need to keep sabotaging the Mantis. Once he’s gone you’ll be the only replacement. Then you can divert their clients to us. What is his current status?”
“I gave him the secret message that the only way to protect his thoughts from being intercepted is to stay drunk all the time.”
*Who else could write about Zelda and her heroic (if Pyrrhic victory) over the Sentinels of the Chandelier? If only one writer was there only he can tell the tale. ‘Cultural appropriation’? Bullshit! The only freedom of speech we don’t have is cursing G-d.
An Artist’s perception of his work can resemble Bizarro World. Consider The Boss. Some of his best songs were never commercially released. A perfectionist is his own worst critic, sometimes misconceiving the quality of his finest work. As will be demonstrated, the picture below is no “stranger” than whatever mad criteria rejected the musical selections discussed here. Proceed with caution. This could divide your mind, generating dual personae: your conception of Springsteen prior to seeing the kitten and manatee (BKM); and whatever remains (AKM). In one fascinating respect, Bruce is more “eccentric” than Warhol, Dali, and Pynchon combined.
This catchy gem had Top 40 potential in the way Pearl Jam’s biggest hit was Last Kiss. They share a vibe, yet it missed the final cut. This is why some of us endured Indiana Jones-like odysseys to acquire Springsteen bootlegs back in ye Olden Tymes, before everything was released in box-sets of outtakes. You kids don’t know how good you have it!
Rendezvous, never included on a studio album. Badlands-tier. Seriously, Bruce?
Once you process that Santa Ana was a mere demo you’ll be ready to entertain conspiracy theories or Freudian hooey as explanations. Wait. You’re still at base camp. The next two songs can change your life.
This outtake of Stolen Car is arguably Springteen’s greatest moment in the studio. (AKA Son You May Kiss the Bride.) Art! “I travel in fear that in this darkness I might just disappear … No matter what I do or where I drive nobody ever sees me when I ride by” capture a chilling sense of life’s transitory, ghostly quality like James Dean stopping at A Clean, Well Lighted Place. Yet the version that landed on The River could most charitably be described as filler. What. Was. He. Thinking.
In what fallen, twisted world is Stray Bullet an “outtake”?! This is Stolen Car-tier. This is one of his best songs. By the second verse you’re in Cormac McCarthy territory. (How’s that for synesthesia.) Allegedly it sounded too much like Point Blank. To the contrary, Point Blank is reminiscent of Stray Bullet. It’s simply stunning that The River could have been a better album, which seems impossible in principle.
Unsatisfied Heart, rough as rough drafts come. Haunting story: “Once I had a home here. My salvation was at hand. I lived in a house of gold, on a far hillside. I had two beautiful children, and a kind and loving wife … One day a man came to town, with nothing and nowhere to go. He came to me and he mentioned something I’d done a long time ago.” Achingly beautiful chorus. What could this have become? Why would you abandon this?
The “official version” of Racing in the Street isn’t even a shadow of this … masterpiece. (Clearly some of the lyrics hadn’t jelled.) There’s an urgency, a fury, a desperation, a magnificence never surpassed by anything on Darkness on the Edge of Town.
The River should have been a triple album. Restless Nights is a surfin’ safari. Depriving the faithful of Loose Ends was theft. Grab a towel. Clarence’s solo will melt your face.
Johnny Bye Bye, b-side with a stone-cold groove few tunes attain. 112 seconds of Satori.
The studio version of Incident on 57th Street contained, only in embryonic form, The Beast it became live.
Jablonski met Springsteen after a solo acoustic show. He paid a few weeks’ wages for a seat in the orchestra pit. Paul Molitor, in the front row behind him, was teased by Jablonski for having a crappy seat. Jablonski told Bruce, “You know how you just made a concept album based on The Grapes of Wrath? Consider a reggae album inspired by Duck Soup.” Bruce laughed. He’s always laughing.
Did Springsteen consider turkeys like Hungry Heart & Born in the USA better than the ones cited in this post? Maybe Shakespeare preferred Titus Andronicus. Freddie Mercury’s favorite Queen song was Crazy Little Thing. If there’s no accounting for taste there’s no accounting for most of what individuates us. There’s no accounting for taste.
In candor, what would possibly constitute an “explanation” of the Eccentric Genius Archetype, a pattern documented before Hippocrates. Recognizing the vast divide between mere descriptions and true explanations, marveling at the sui generis nature of our subject, the only conclusion is to redouble our gratitude to all those who made sacrifices to circulate Springsteen bootlegs back in ye Olden Tymes.
Jablonski once possessed 2k+ hours of Grateful Dead, Springsteen, Allman Bros, Dire Straits, Stones, Hendrix, Phish, Doors, Pink Floyd and sundry boots. On cassette. Those were plastic thingies with two small spools of tape inside. The preferred ones held 90 minutes. The GD let you record their shows if you sat in a special section. Jablonski would trade all his tomorrows for another run at Alpine. Paging Sean Carroll …
Petronius Jablonski 
