I joke that my wife has a big, fat brain. Compared to me, she’s cerebral, systematic creature. She reads, plans, and thrives on tedious tasks. She studied linguistics and geophysics—words and rocks—gloriously pointless way to channel intellectual horsepower. None of it ever produced direct profit, aside from a few stupid jokes from me. She eventually worked in finance, where tediousness and a friendly relationship with numbers are rewarded.

I can’t sit still nor submit to any process. In that sense, we’re complementary. Our productivity emerges from mismatched nervous systems. She runs the household. I squeeze out creative income. The squeeze only works thanks to an oversized cardiovascular system and monkey mind.

She is able use screens like field workers. Digital tools make her life easier. They extend her capacity. So when I complain about how hellish remote work feels, she doesn’t quite get it.

In theory, digital tools are just another medium. They mediate experience, like books, radio, language. We’re all comfortable with mediation. Wearing clothes is a form of it: more comfort in exchange for less sensitivity. Language does the same. Since the mind eats first, the medium usually is the message. My world mostly is mediated mental activity.

I’ve become more aware of how much mediation I tolerate. I try to keep it as low as possible. That keeps me away from fashion for example. I know there is a lot to it. That thick cultural and historical stuff is pure additive. That’s civilization. I need to wear something, work, consume, move, be part of the machine. That’s all fine. Pragmatism seems like a fair name for managing these added existential layers.

I try not to live by pragmatism. Fortunately, this happens intuitively. Thanks to a gracefully limited memory and an underpowered left brain, I respond poorly to most systems. Shame used to follow. Now it’s mostly comic irritation.

The core message of modern mindfulness gurus reassures me: “Do what you have to do, but don’t get lost in it.”

The agreeable pragmatism behind it still rubs me the wrong way. The lack of a radical call to action feels unsatisfying. It’s mature. Everything has a cost. Liberation isn’t free, but it might exist. It demands diligence. The stoic in me appreciates the smell. What annoys me is the dead end. There’s no way around it—only through. No wisdom to collect. Nothing to expect. At the macro level, it resolves to: and then you die. At the scale of a day, though, it lands differently.

Before drifting to sleep, I often catch myself thinking: Damn. I really got sucked in.

— Published on 2026-01-08

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