Folk Dancing with the Pot Head Pixies of Planet Nimbin

Nimbin is to Australia what Planet Gong is to the rest of the cosmos, and I had the pleasure of visiting it for the first time on the weekend of September 15-17, which happily coincided with the town’s second annual Roots Festival. If you like your music earthy, this is the place to be—and it’s a lot better value than the yuppified (though still admittedly very good) Byron Bay Blues Festival which takes place every Easter an hour or so’s drive away.


High Street (in every sense), Nimbin

And what a drive: this part of northern New South Wales really is God’s own backyard with curvaceous hills, fragrant bush and slinky valleys which, under sunny blue skies, are beguiling enough but would look and smell downright voluptuous after a drop of rain. But I digress.


Nimbin Rocks (that’s enough puns—Ed.)

The town is certainly a hippy haven and cynical city types like me can quickly tire of its monomaniacal preoccupation with dope and related paraphernalia, evident at the various cafes (“The Bent Joint”) and shops (“Hemp Embassy”). There’s an underlying authenticity, however. It put me in mind of what my small and unprepossessing home town might have become, had I been able to fulfil my schoolboy fantasy of replacing its water supply with lysergic acid.

But enough about me. What about the music?


The first act I saw wasn’t particularly promising: an earth-spirit wearing dreadlocks and a loin cloth and smeared head to toe in mud, who snapped into life and played a ditty on the Pan pipes in return for some coin. A little way down the street was a different story: some very fine blues harp indeed courtesy of Billy James from Billinudgel. He told me he enjoys teaching as much as playing, and I would have signed up for lessons on the spot but for the fact that I live an hour’s flight away.

That was it for the buskers. I have the festival flyer to hand and I could easily count the number of acts for the sake of statistical interest, but life’s too short. Suffice to say there were far too many, spread across six venues, for any one person to see them all. The first stage act I saw were blues/folk duo Darktown Strutters who played a very traditional set with sweetness and respect. Frustratingly, I can’t seem to find any examples of their music online (plenty of other bands called Darktown Strutters, but not them).

Blues Arcadia from Brisbane turned up the heat at Nimbin Hall with their soulful blues punched out by Chris Harvey on guitar and the charismatic Alan Boyle on vocals. Rhythm and keyboards were great, too, although I can’t say I saw much action on the bassist’s fifth string. Expensive thumb rest? Hmm….

They were ably followed by The Taste from Cairns who blended hip-hop with rock, soul and funk. The horns featured in the video below were absent on the day, but no matter. They were a blast: I particularly liked the lead guitarist’s imaginative but restrained use of effects and Vanessa’s vocals. (Note to rest of band: this lady is woefully under-utilised. Use her or lose her.) They sold branded stubby holders as well as CDs: a class act. They made me feel old, though: clearly nobody who remembers, or has heard of, Rory Gallagher would have chosen that name for their own band.

The other thing that made me feel old was the fact that neither I nor my companions had heard of ANY of the bands appearing over the weekend. We decided to choose which acts to see based on how interesting or exotic their names were. This put Sweet Emily and the Judgemental Fucks at the top of our list. They didn’t disappoint. Tight, angular rock underpinned by Emily’s chunky guitar rhythms and sharp-tongued solo notes. Many of her songs gave insights into her personal life, some of them intimate, all of them colourful. Tourette’s Syndrome never sounded so good.

And so, eventually, to bed.


Another beautiful day in paradise, beginning with excellent chai at the Phoenix Rising Café and what turned out to be my favourite act of the whole weekend. Jolanda Moyle plays ethereal, transcendent modern folk using acoustic guitar loops, sarangi (a classical Indian instrument, somewhere between a violin and a cello) and a hauntingly pure voice with plenty of reverb. Definitely music of, and for, the gods. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” said my bride of 33 years. “Er, well…”, I replied. Rolling her eyes, my beloved and our friends took their leave in search of entertainment better suited to the mere mortals which, through no fault of their own, they are.

Back to the Bowlo for some pared back electric blues from Gold Cost duo The James Street Preachers. As the video shows, Jamie Kasdaglis (guitar, keyboard and vocals) and Matt Lye (bass, vocals) are adept at multitasking.

And to cap it all off, Missus Hippy and the Love Handles on the Aquarius Stage—the venue reserved for local acts. Talk about Old Wave music in all its dusty glory: this is the first band I’ve seen in which neither of the guitarists has a full set of teeth. That is not a put-down but a celebration of the fact that men and women of a certain age can still rock it up with the best of them. MHLH do so with original material which is variously timeless and topical, written by rhythm guitarist Doug (I’d play the outstanding My Dog, but the sound quality on my phone video doesn’t do it justice). Mrs H. (aka Biscuit) sounds like a blues mama from way back and exudes earth-mother warmth while lead guitarist Joey has a certain, shall we say, other-worldly appeal. Bob on bass and the drummer whose name I didn’t catch carried it all along very nicely. A highlight of the weekend and a band I would love to see again.

Another highlight: staying at Crofton’s Retreat. Thanks to Wayne and Paul, Bear and Jack. See you next year, guys.

Ordinary Man, No Ordinary Album

One of the characteristics of the Old Wave that sets it apart from the rest of contemporary music is the depth and breadth of life experience behind the songs. That is exemplified nowhere better than on Steve Banks’ album, Ordinary Man*.

It’s Banks’ first album, but it captures a lifetime of highs and lows he’s experienced as a businessman, family man and—by no means least—a phenomenally talented singer, songwriter, guitarist and live performer.


These three quite distinct themes find expression in a fusion of blues, rock and soul which feels and sounds completely natural rather than conceptually driven.

Partly this is because of the extent to which Banks has absorbed and integrated these styles in his highly personal approach to musical self-expression. In the album’s flawless execution, it’s also a reflection of the close working relationship between Banks and his producer Jeff Burstin, former lead guitarist with the Black Sorrows and Jo Jo Zep & The Falcons.

Burstin—as his current work with Melbourne-based The Hornets attests—is a blues man through and through, and it’s the blues sensibility that helps to give the album its overall unity. The blues is quite rightly respected here as the Old Testament of modern popular music, but a willingness to infuse it with a contemporary feel makes its influence timeless rather than dated, and comes close to giving the album a classic quality.


Double trouble: Burstin (L) and Banks live in Byron Bay

There are no duff tracks and all stand tall, some very much so. The first, “The Way That It Is”, is what used to be known as a breezy little opener. It kicks off with a nail-it-down-tight drum intro followed by a brass riff that adds a touch of big-band swing which not only manages to avoid overwhelming the punchy compactness of the song but also complements Banks’ smoky vocal perfectly. It’s a classic tale of man chases woman and gets caught in his own trap (“I was in need of inspiration/She took me from behind…”) and introduces the relationships theme in a positive light.

“Money”, is a soulful lament about materialism (“You talk about money like you’ve had some for a while/You talk about money like it’s going out of style”) which is complemented neatly by the next track, “Like Robbie Says”, a tribute to The Band’s former guitarist, now solo artist, Robbie Robertson.  It’s a laid back country rock number which nicely captures The Band’s feel for Americana with a plea to free the spirit from the shackles of the social media age.

“Throw Me a Bone” combines great Stax brass with funky guitar to tell an all-too-familiar tale of a man trying to redeem himself in the eyes of a woman (“I’ve been walking, stalking the night/Trying to think of ways and means of making this right”) but it’s the next track, “Millie’s Song”, that really takes the relationships theme into Old Wave territory. It’s a beautiful tribute to Banks’ daughter, written for her 21st birthday, that could bring a tear to the eye of any proud parent. Not the least of its strengths is the killer line: “You had me at the ultrasound”.

The relationships theme takes a dark turn with “I Wonder How You Sleep”, payback for a business relationship sabotaged by betrayal—a pain made all the worse by the fact that the relationship had been based on close personal friendship (“The mistake I made was trusting you with my life and family/ I gave you all that I could give, you repaid me ruthlessly”). Expletives are two a penny on albums these days, but the one used here is heartfelt and almost chilling in its effect.

The title of “Me, Innit” betrays Banks’ Mancunian roots and the track is probably the most reflective on the album, looking back on a successful life but wondering how much of that success was the result of personal authenticity and how much the result of an ability to bluff others. It’s a brave song, laying open Banks’ insecurities for all to see.

“Gotta Get My Balls Back” is also highly personal. I have it on good authority that the song references a dark period in Banks’ life which involved, by Old Wave standards, some pretty serious substance abuse—a liking for herbal tea and gluten-free bread. I’m pleased to report that, after a stern talking-to by said Millie, our man is now back on the beer and chip butties. Driven along by Burstin’s aggressive 12-bar walking blues, it’s a great track for harmonica players to vamp along to.

The fun continues with “Fitzroy Rag”, one of several tracks co-written by Banks and Burstin, and a colourful homage to one of Melbourne’s more famous suburbs, not far from where the album was recorded.

Easily one of the album’s highlights is the title track, “Ordinary Man”, a deeply affecting elegy for a dearly loved brother. It’s one of those rare works of art where any attempt at criticism feels like an act of trespass, so I’ll restrict my comments to referencing The Band again and comparing the song to “It Makes No Difference”, written by Robbie Robertson and sung, heart-rendingly, by Rick Danko.

Both these songs, for my money, stand apart for emotional depth and delivery. The fact that more than 40 years separate them says a lot not only about the rare quality of Banks’ writing and singing, but also the extent to which he has absorbed and continues a great musical tradition.

The two final tracks—the bluesy “Give You My Mind” and the evocative sixties-style surf instrumental (complete with theremin) “Castaway”—round out the album to a very satisfying conclusion.

Available on iTunes and highly recommended.

*Full disclosure: Banks has a history of collaboration with Universal Stranger’s songwriter-in-residence, Rody. For more on the Old Wave, click here.


Notes for a poem, “Black”; by Simon Jones

(Notes for a poem)


‘Stick to the bitumen and you’ll be right.’


Black ribbon road

Laid down by some Ariadne of the outback

Through the red dust

(Ancient fire, consumed to powder

By its own heat)


Inscribed like black letter law;

Reminds me of Moses in the desert―

O children of Israel!


Takes me back

To my childhood

Land of my fathers

Wanderers in a deforested landscape

‘Pilgrim through this barren land’


(Should I start singing Bread of Heaven?)


The burning bush

Burns without consuming:

I am.


The howling dingo emptiness behind me

Always at my heels

Chasing my wheels.


God is an abstraction

Anthropomorphic attributions are idolatrous


But necessary

Because redemption is the human and the abstract (or divine)

Partaking of each other’s nature.


Prophets are inspired

A means to salvation by virtue of being human mediators of the divine (or abstract)

A variation on anthropomorphism.


Who is your prophet, O lost tribe of Israel?

(For so the Welsh were thought to be.)


“Speaking for myself, it was my Great Uncle Tom,

Or Rhondda Tom (as he wasn’t known; I just made that up).

The pinnacle of manliness in my family―

Teacher, politician, social activist―

In whom faith and scepticism wrestled,

Each making the other stronger;



In the issues of the day.”


The black economy;

Faces black with coal dust,

Their words hung black and biblical on the air, in their own ink of sound

And fell into print

Black letters

Fingers black with ink.


Tom inspired my father

My father became a journalist


A matter of record now

The echoes have died

But not

The fire in their eyes or on their tongues


The flames still dance in the darkness


Like the sunset up ahead

At the end of this long black road

Out of nowhere


(Painting: Three Generations of Welsh Miners, by Eugene Smith)

Alienation, Democracy and the Trustee Class: The Stranger’s View

Hi, Lizard – you received some interesting comments among the 2,737 Facebook likes for your item about The Book of Genesis (see last blog, below), and not all of them of the “Repent and accept Jesus” variety.  I was particularly intrigued with the discussion about the ancient snake-worshiping cult and its possible links to the Genesis story and to the snake incident in The Epic of Gilgamesh. One can only imagine how deeply these archetypes lie in the history of story-telling. It almost persuades me that there might be something to Jung’s idea of the collective consciousness after all.

I’m not a fan of populism, and I think its resurgence is an opportunity to reassert the importance of a trustee class and, in Britain and Australia, the continuing relevance of the monarchy.

Thank you, too, for referencing the Alienation Theory of History. The older I get, the more I find this theory—the idea that the roots of human alienation run back to the Neolithic—helpful in regaining some perspective on the ceaseless flux of daily life. It enables me to imagine that the flux and confusion can be characterised as the result of tension between pre-agrarian and post-agrarian traditions which, arguably, continues to resonate in our contemporary culture because (as you point out) such traditions began relatively recently in the timeline of our socio-intellectual evolution.


“The roots of human alienation….” Cliché or not, it’s still a powerful image.

It’s possible to visualise this tension in various ways. I see one aspect of it as arising from the relationship between constitutional monarchy and democracy, in Britain and Australia particularly. The tension in this relationship (much of it synthetic, in my view) seems to be growing. Just so we’re clear, I am a democrat, although a conservative one who believes that the monarchy and democracy can, and should, co-exist happily and to their mutual benefit. I am not star-struck about the British monarchy or any other, however. I believe that any stable and successful country needs a strong trustee class—people who exist above politics and who, through their personal values and public duty, embody their country’s character, history and traditions. It doesn’t need to be a monarchy but the British monarchy is all this and more. Nobody in their right minds, still less a patriot, would willingly entrust their country’s soul to a former politician or bureaucrat (Brexit is proof that many people share a similar view). Unless and until we find a better alternative trustee class to the British monarchy (and I can’t think what that might be) it should stay in place.


Gawd bless yer, Ma’am

What the monarchy (and, indeed, any credible trustee class) represents to me is an idea of social relationships based on human values such as trust, morality, loyalty, mutual care and compassion. This is in direct and absolute contrast to the values one encounters, and which are expected of one, every day in modern democratic society. There, relationships are essentially contractual, self-interested and short term. Indeed, as the Alienation Theory of History proposes, the movement towards these lesser values has been the overall direction of our social development since the Neolithic. Among modern historical examples, one need think only of the 16th century enclosure movement in England and, in the 19th century, the increasing use of legislation to regulate human behaviour (much of it necessary to extend the franchise and limit social evils such as child labour, etc.). Morality became less and less the governing principle of life, being superseded by technicalities.

This complex of shallow social democratic values is a source of alienation to me (and others) and I locate my sense of belonging in the traditional relationship that still exists (almost exclusively outside cities these days, in rural communities) between ordinary people and the trustee class. The social democratic microcosm belongs to a shallow self-serving bourgeois elite which, as the election of Donald Trump as US president last year showed, is losing its grip. I’m not a fan of populism, and I think its resurgence is an opportunity to reassert the importance of a trustee class and, in Britain and Australia, the continuing relevance of the monarchy. The internal corrosion of our cultural institutions by the fascist green left provides another opportunity.

Isn’t it strange how reflections like this should be set in train by a free-thinking meditation on the Book of Genesis?


The Stranger

Deconstructing Genesis: the Lizard’s Tale

Rody – you asked me to expand on my ideas about Genesis, as discussed during our well lubricated lunch with Ms Drysdale some weeks ago. As you will recall, they’re more about Adam and Eve and the Fall than any other part of the book. They’re not particularly well informed or thought through, so consider them not so much as opinions but more as speculations to which I would welcome your intelligent and critical response.

Firstly, let me make clear that I, like you, do not take the Bible literally or believe in the supernatural. I do regard the Bible, however, as important source literature, not only for understanding key aspects of Western history, but also for helpful insights into the human condition. Like all great literature, it’s a repository of profound psychological truths.


Insights into the human condition (Alltime 10s, YouTube)

My starting point in thinking about this subject is to remind myself of the historical perspective. As my favourite historian J. M. Roberts points out, humans have existed more than 20 times longer than the civilisations they have created (indeed, as the picture below reminds us, not all of today’s humans are “civilised”). That alone is a clue to understanding much about the human condition: civilisation occurs relatively recently in our development, and we’re still getting the hang of it. In this I subscribe to the Stranger’s Alienation Theory of History: that alienation has been a permanent structural feature of settled societies since they began, its origin traceable back to the Neolithic and the emergence of agrarianism alongside the established hunter-gatherer mode of existence—a major divergence in the human lifestyle, and a new and more polarising cause of social and cultural estrangement. (This is all theory, remember.)


We’re all still trying to get the hang of civilisation…. (© Gleison Miranda/FUNAI/

Using this idea as a lens through which to read Genesis, the story can be interpreted as a symbolic account of this primeval disruption (with which, surely, our own highly disrupted age can find some sympathy). Adam and Eve are foragers in a pristine environment which, I’m tempted to think, might be a poetic evocation of the landscapes left by the retreating Ice Ages, as remembered in the oral traditions of stories handed down since prehistory (I tend to get a little carried away on points like this, so please be patient). There’s a (no doubt tenuous) school of thought that suggests one of the drivers of agrarian settlement was the discovery of the pleasures to be derived from ingesting fermented fruit, and the application of this discovery to religious rituals. The Genesis story links the Fall to a change of consciousness in Adam and Eve, which occurred after they ate the forbidden fruit; perhaps that change of consciousness is analogous to that which occurs after drinking too much alcohol! Again, this is fanciful speculation on my part, but I note that a recurring theme for Roberts is the extent to which human history – or at least the story of human development – is the story of our changing (or growing) consciousness. According to Genesis, a change in consciousness caused humanity’s downfall.


Changed consciousness (Masaccio’s Expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise)

On this reading, the Fall represents the loss of human connection with the natural environment because of the growth of settled communities and the challenge they represented to the hunter-gatherer lifestyle in terms of territorial claims, religious beliefs and cultural values. It’s worth noting in this context that Genesis was written, according to Wikipedia, “either just before or during the Babylonian exile of the 6th century BC, and the Priestly final edition was made late in the Exilic period soon after”. For the Jews in exile, the tale might have been a way of rationalising and “owning” their alienation in a great foreign city. Like the 40 years in the wilderness, the experience was formative: some important identifying characteristics of Jewish culture, such as the observance of the Sabbath, were established during this period.

Adam and Eve left Eden and went to the land of Nod—a Hebrew word for “wandering” or “wander”. They became the eternal outsiders – the first Universal Strangers, perhaps?




P.S. – On Creative Engagement and Religion….

Dear Rody – I’ve been thinking more about your note on meditation and Esse and I guess it raises the broader issue about the relationship between Esse and religion. As you know, I don’t see Esse as a religion and would be appalled to think that it could become one, but I am interested in the potential for existing religions to add it (somehow) to their world view. I haven’t really thought about this, but I offer here some preliminary ideas.

The link lies in the Judaeo-Christian idea of sacrifice—the ritual of atonement through which the relationship between man and God can be (re)established.

Esse sees the various religions as a branch of human creativity, and I think that the religions we have would appeal to people far more than Esse as vehicles for spiritual expression and fulfilment, because of the symbolism and traditions that they embody—attributes that would be so much more effective in engaging people’s senses and affections than the abstract and, let’s face it, arid nature of Esse.  It’s the idea of religion as essentially a creative pursuit which helps us to maintain a rational perspective on it, and this rationality is (or attempts to be) consistent with the rationality that the Esse concept claims for itself.

[This underlines idea that Esse is potentially most useful in the secular sphere, as a positive statement about God and a counter-narrative to theocratic zealots who claim that nihilism lies at the core of the capitalist-democratic project.]

So, looked at from this rational/creative perspective, how does religion or the faith experience line up alongside your quasi-mystical take on Esse? I’m going to come at this from a liberal Anglican Christian point of view.


In the Old Testament, it was goats…

The first thing to note is that, in my personal experience, trying to exercise Christian devotion to Esse rather than to the traditional theistic God doesn’t work on a creative level. For the devotion to mean anything, it must embrace the anthropomorphic fallacy of theism (symbolism and traditions etc,; see above): the relationship with God through Christ has to be seen as a personal one (again I’m speaking for myself). This is where the creativity or “willing suspension of disbelief” comes in. But what’s the link, relationship or point of transition between this and the real world?

I think it lies in the Judaeo-Christian idea of sacrifice—the ritual of atonement through which the relationship between man and God can be (re)established. In the Old Testament, it involved goats; in the New Testament, it’s the Crucifixion.  Here, it’s the sacrifice of reason to enable the creative engagement in faith. Like the other forms of sacrifice, it can take a sacramental form: the Eucharist, for example, sends us out into the world to be a “living sacrifice” to God.

The more I think about this the more powerful the idea seems to be, and the more it seems to offer a sane adjustment between the secular world and spiritual experience.

This doesn’t answer the broader question about how religions might relate to Esse but, for now, I’m enjoying the sense of balance that it’s restored to my life.


[Pic – The Scapegoat by William Holman Hunt, 1854]

Neurology vs. Cognition

Thanks, Rody; interesting (I can only guess at what the physical side effect might have been). As to the role of meditation in Esse, it’s not something I’ve really thought about, but I imagine it would raise all sorts of questions about the relationship between neurology and cognition, and what influence our neurological processes might have on our cognitive ones.

Have you thought about that?



Rody Chips In…

Howdy, Stranger (always wanted to say that) and Lizard:

You’ve both been looking at the relationship between metaphysics and practical philosophy; I’ve been thinking about Esse from a different perspective, namely reflective or meditative. I see a parallel of sorts between the kind of seamless conceptual coherence that the Lizard is looking for and the mental clarity I find that contemplation of Esse can give me.

The meditative technique—if I can call it that—begins, as most do, with a relaxed but stable sitting posture with eyes closed. After focusing initially on the idea of Esse as the object of contemplation, the mind disengages from conscious thinking and becomes aware only of itself. The process then follows a path analogous to your description, in the “Genesis” piece, about the self, spontaneously aware of its singularity, becoming conscious of an external reality which (the mind having been primed to contemplate Esse) manifests itself in this instance as a generalised sense of existence. This state having been achieved—I call it “apex consciousness”—the mind focuses on the idea that existence is God and God is existence or Esse, and that Esse is eternal, with nothing before or after it. The object is to sustain this thought and no other for as long as possible.


The first time I tried this I was stunned by the feeling of transcendence it gave me (not to mention a particularly interesting physical side effect). I’ve tried it a few times since without the same intensity of impact, but I plan to keep practising with the aim of getting better at it, and developing the ability to use it as a psychological resource.

I’m not sure what, if anything, this adds to your conversation, or what role, if any, meditation etc. plays in your thinking about Esse.


Order Out of Chaos: the Rule of Three


As I said, the model can’t be applied holistically; the implementation must be sequential: that is, each component is implemented to address specific issues as they arise, be they metaphysical, spiritual or ethical. The components don’t fit together organically because we live in a post-synthetic age[1], where our thinking about life is informed more by empirical knowledge than by pure, internally consistent, reasoning. This is certainly the basis of my approach which (as I indicated in the personal anecdotes) has been shaped by the loss of my younger self’s religion-based world view and by subsequent attempts to understand life by examining the facts of my existence.

One of the characteristics of the post-synthetic era is a sense of flux and fragmentation

This is probably a good point to acknowledge one of the (no doubt many) shortcomings of my approach. It is, at its core, emotional rather than rational because it’s a response to a specific event—an existential crisis in my youth. No, I’m not playing the victim card; it’s a fact and I need to put it out there as a matter of full disclosure.

That said, I’m hardly alone. One of the characteristics of the post-synthetic era is a sense of flux and fragmentation. That has a basis in historical and cultural fact: it’s there in the modernist movement (think T. S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land”, Joyce’s “Ulysses”, Woolf’s stream of consciousness etc.) and in our own post-modernist, post-fact, post-truth, post-West, culturally relativist era. The coherence in the pluralistic model lies, perhaps paradoxically, in acknowledging its incoherence, arguing that the incoherence is consistent with the flavour of contemporary life, understanding the implications, and applying that understanding systematically in the way we think.


Under the brown fog of a winter dawn….

The way I do this is through the “Rule of Three”, which is my way of rationalising the incoherence of daily life into something manageable. It’s based on the idea that experience breaks down into three categories—change, continuity and crisis—and that the idea applies as much to general history as it does to individual lives. The model is consistent with this, as follows: change corresponds to the active, socially conscientious lives lived by my father’s side of the family, which I wish to emulate (ethics); continuity corresponds to the cultural affiliation to religion and tradition (“spiritual epistemology”) and crisis corresponds to the alienation that I’m trying to escape or overcome. For ease of reference, I commonly refer to change in this triad as “alpha”, continuity as “beta” and crisis (or disruption) as “gamma”.

There is of course a fourth element which is something of a special case—the metaphysical solution or Esse. This is associated with continuity or stability but, because of its theoretical pre-eminence, I assign it the unique status of “super-beta”.

At some stage, I’ll share some examples with you of how the Rule of Three works in practice but, for now, trust me, it does….



[1] I’m thinking of Hans Reisenbach here, in “The Rise of Scientific Philosophy”. But I often wonder about the biggest project in physics today, the attempt to reconcile the general theory of relativity and quantum theory. Isn’t that a form of synthesis?

Pic source here


Lizard Writes: “Please Explain”

“Liz.” Seriously? After I asked you not to?

Anyway, you say that your model for the relationship between metaphysics and practical philosophy is pluralistic, but that it can provide a coherent perspective on life. How? You don’t explain. If this model is supposed to add up to something coherent, then surely all the individual components must fit together somehow—and yet, by your own admission, they don’t.

Maybe spend less time on the silly name calling and more time thinking things through?

The Lizard.