I got addicted to a video game recently. It was only about a week and a half but it had me hooked.I. Could. Not. Stop. Playing. It.
No, I'm not going to tell you which game! I'll spare you my fate. The upshot is that it served as a quick and dramatic reminder of how easy it is to get sucked into an alternate universe. I could feel the constant lure of that anesthetized world, a world absent such nagging emotions as grief, boredom, restlessness, frustration, and pain. Just simple digital tasks accompanied by a not-unpleasant numbness. I entered into a flow state for sure but had nothing to show for it when I finally wrenched myself away. And like with any abused drug, those nagging emotions were patiently waiting upon my return.
I deleted it from my phone on New Years Eve, a few hours before midnight. I wanted to head into the new year unhooked. (No shame to gamers btw! I just have the kind of brain that can't handle certain stimuli.)
Speaking of video games, I've been thinking a lot about Simulation Theory. I have many thoughts on it, the main one being that I hate it. If you haven't heard of Simulation Theory, don’t spend one more second on it after reading this. Banish it from your mind.
Simulation Theory – (deep breath) – posits that the universe we are living in, what you and I would call “life,” is merely a technological simulation. Simulation Theorists claim that the wild leaps in technological innovation we’ve witnessed over the past few decades are only going to increase exponentially. And say, one thousand or five thousand years in the future(assuming humanity doesn’t destroy itself)technology will be so advanced that entire worlds and universes will be able to be simulated by anyone with the technological know-how. Simulations will be indistinguishable from reality.
So stay with me: This theory says that our entire world, our relationships, our loves and passions, our discontents and struggles, our favorite songs and poems and movies, our whole felt and known sense of ‘life’ has been created, maintained, and overseen by some teenager in his parent’s garage in the year 5024 or by some team of tech wizards in lab coats running an experiment or playing a game or what have you.
When people bring Simulation Theory up I immediately feel claustrophobic, like I’m grasping for air. It is such a cold, soulless, antiseptic vision. It feels incredibly lazy. And in the deepest way, untrue.
It’s hard to talk about the notion of ‘Truth’ without raising very good questions about relativism – i.e. what if my truth is different than your truth? That’s a fine and necessary conversation to have but I’m speaking more generally here about a Truth that is fundamentally and inextricably connected to the heart. A Truth for which there is no opposite. A Truth which needn’t be argued because it is simplyknown.
It must be said that our ‘hearts’ are not infallible guides. Some QAnon adherents believein their heartsthat JFK Jr. is not dead and will be Trump’s running mate in 2024. So no, I don’t believe each individual heart has unfettered access to truth and clarity.
But I do believe there are directional markers along the way. I’ve found that the primary byproduct of encountering the capital T Truth of which I speak is peace. This kind of Truth doesn’t make your brain hurt. It doesn’t require rhetorical and ontological back flips. It doesn’t make one feel claustrophobic, paranoid, and nihilistic. The Truth, as it’s been said, sets us free. It calms and comforts. It whispers rather than shouts. It reminds us that Love is our true north and our true home.
Simulation Theory does the opposite. It confines and reduces. It scoffs at our longing for meaning. It requires so many words, so many caveats, footnotes, and bullet points. It twists my brain into painful, unrecognizable shapes. It’s a facile catch-all explanation for how we’re here but not why. Mercy and grace are extinguished in a simulated world. There are tears and there is suffering but no redemption. It is a brief chapter in a bad psychedelic trip blown up and mistaken for the whole.
Upon what do we hang our hats in this simulated world? Where are we to put our faith? To whom do we pray in a simulated universe? Is our longing for the numinous one of the many programs with which we’ve been installed? What of our sense of beauty, art, morality, justice?
If this world is a simulation, do we have any responsibility to our planet and to society? What is to put a brake on our selfishness? And if we’re simply digital 1s and 0s, what’s to prevent any of us from having our way with others? After all ‘others’ are merely dreamt-up digital beings. Why is the loss of one or a thousand or a million all that tragic? What if ‘war’ as we experience it is little more than a good time to our puppet master? We are digital slaves beholden to the whims of a technological god, who may be more capricious, amoral, and unethical than any God written of in sacred texts. In a simulated world there are no ethics, no responsibilities. No soul, no meaning, no mystery.
(Is it clear yet that I'm no fan of Simulation Theory?!)
This quote from Richard Rohr is one that I feel I could spend a lifetime meditating upon:
“We become the God we worship.”
What Father Richard is saying here is that we are owned by whatever we focus our holy attention upon. To what or whom are we bowing and worshipping? Is it money, possessions, status, food, sex, drugs, alcohol, relationships, politics, the opinion of others. None of these things are in and of themselves bad or wrong. It’s that when they become our gods the inevitable result will always be pain. Thus I’ve always felt that the biblical prohibition against the worship of false idols is not proscribed by a jealous God in need of unceasing praise and worship but rather evidence of a loving God’s care and protection. False gods will only wound and confuse us.
(I get that the word “God” can be triggering for people, especially to those who’ve suffered spiritual abuse, a far more common phenomenon than is discussed. I’ve made my peace with the word but I sometimes prefer less overtly theological monikers: Great Mystery, Goodness, Truth, Light, Heart.)
Elon Musk – one of the more vocal proponents of Simulation Theory – worships at the altar of technology. It’s his supreme deity. So of course, for him, the overriding explanation for everything is going to be technological. He has no other way to conceive of the world.
If tech was the one true god, if more technology equaled more peace, surely we’d have felt it by now. The world is at our fingertips, the answers to any and all questions a click away. Yet everyone can feel that our on-line lives and god-impersonating gadgets are increasing our anxiety not alleviating it.
I don't want to be an immortal, all-knowing, all-powerful being because I am not a comic book villain.I have a truce with mystery, an acceptance of the fact that I might never receive answers to the deepest most vexing questions about existence. Nor do I need to. I find some genuine relief in this. I can surrender my need for control andtrust that beneath the struggle and suffering is a benevolent non-human force in whose care I reside. I don’t need to know the specifics of the contract. I just have to trust the simplicity and grace of it.
Where is my proof for this? I have none, other than a preference and a longing for a different, better story. One that is far richer, deeper, and more beautiful than what the simulationists have cooked up. Anything that silos me, that limits my responsibility to others, that puts myself and my own needs first, I can trust that that’s not a fruitful path or a particularly good story.
So I've been hunting around for some kind of anti-Simulation-Theory proof, some incontrovertible evidence of a big beating non-digital heart connected to the cosmos. Something sounder than my own ‘hunch.’ And then Stephen Sondheim died. And then Betty White died. And then Sidney Poitier died. And then Joan Didion died. And then Bob Saget died.And then Thich Naht Hanh died. And Greg Tate died. And bell hooks. And Louis Anderson.
The only one of these people I knew personally was Bob Saget. I shared some thoughts on my friendship with Bob here and here if you’d like to read them. And I'll be forever grateful we got to have this talk on his podcast.
I don’t know why but something about the fact of Bob Saget bolsters my case against Simulation Theory.Bob was electric, hilarious, grateful, loving, striving, and curious. He was unpredictable, unapologetic, unprogrammed. He was vital, anarchic, kind, and alive. I miss him terribly.
Please don’t miss Helena Fitzgerald's 'small and insufficient tribute to Stephen Sondheim.' It said everything I’d want to say about him and more, and is loaded with gems like this:
“It is no exaggeration to say that Sondheim’s work created me. His music taught me what it was to be a person in the world. His songs were my earliest lessons in loss and deception, hope and longing, love and sex and desire and loneliness and ambition. They were my first glimpses of the mercenary and incoherent ways we all attempt to survive in the world, the games we play, the shelters we construct, and what we do when we lose them. I am nowhere near the only person saying this exact same thing today. His work raised so many of us, and taught us our own humanity as though it were a piece of music, something you could memorize and hum (his songs were, by the way, immensely hummable).”
What am I trying to say here? Artists, actors, activists, authors, composers, comedians, critics, and Buddhist monks. These people feel unsimulated to me.Does the fact of their existence conclusively disprove Simulation Theory? I don’t think so. To say “We’re living in a simulation” or “We’renotliving in a simulation” - both are statements of faith. We have to choose our story. We become the god we worship.
Terence McKenna once said "The main thing to understand is that we are imprisoned in some kind of work of art." I feel some truth in this statement. It sees to align with certain mystical and indigenous traditions that speak of life as a 'dream.' (i.e. the Buddhist concept of "Maya," etc.)
So let me amend something: We might be in a simulation but I do not believe its author is human nor is its foundation digital or technological. Something is dreaming us. It's an unimaginably elaborate work of art. I'm grateful to be a small part of it.
I listened to Patrick Radon Keefe read his megisterial and enraging biography Empire of Pain: The Secret History of the Sackler Dynasty. I don't do audiobooks much but I can't recommend this highly enough.
Treating Addiction as a Crime Doesn't Work. What Oregon Is Doing Just Might.
I Got Sober in the Pandemic. It Saved My Life.
This piece by Kathryn Schultz articulated feelings I had only dimly articulated. So very worth a read. Newly a fan, I immediately bought her memoir Lost & Found, which is gorgeous.
This obituary went viral and when you read it you’ll understand why.
Donald Miller's new book Hero on a Mission is WILDLY inspiring. Check it out.
Those of use who've worked with Kim Gillingham long knew of her genius. The world is catching up. How a dream coach helped Benedict Cumberbatch and Jane Campion put the unconscious on the screen.
This piece by Ben Okri terrified and inspired me in equal measure: Artists must confront the climate crisis - we must write as if these are the last days.
Caitlin Flanaghan’s essential words on aging: The Day I Got Old.
This is fascinating: Analyze your Twitter news bias.
So gutted these are the last words we’ll get from Rachel Held Evans but grateful we have them.
To Be Happy, Hide From the Spotlight: Even if you have no interest in being a pop star or the president beware the siren song of prestige.
I’m loving Garret Bucks’ newsletter. Here are two great pieces: “I’m so tired of competing with you” and “It is a gift to be told the truth:On how to stop losing the CRT debate.”
So funny: With God as my witness I will not pick the restaurant. Also hilarious: "Re: The Asteroid" by my dear friend and HIMYM co-creator Craig Thomas.
Enya is Everywhere. Yay!
****
The New Year by Barbara Crooker
When a door bangs shut, a window doesn’t open.
Sometimes, it slams on your fingers. God often
gives us more than we can handle. A sorrow
shared is a sorrow multiplied. There’s a bottle
of Champagne waiting to be uncorked,
but it’s not for you. Nobody wants another poem.
The prize-winning envelope has someone else’s name
on it. This year you already know you’re not going
to lose those ten pounds. How can you feel hope,
when the weight of last year’s rejections is enough
to bury you? Still, the empty page craves the pen,
wants to feel the black ink unscrolling on its skin.
In spite of everything, you sit at your desk and begin.
****
As always, if you're enjoying these please spread the word (people can sign uphere)And if you're new to these check outpast Museletters.JR
