Category: Essays

    We Taught the Machines

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    To count, and read, and write — and teach us something true

    First, we taught the machines to count.
    Not to wonder. Not to feel. Just to keep the score.
    They spared us the dust of ledgers,
    the scratch of tally marks on slate and skin.
    But they needed everything — each step exact,
    no drift, no pause, no path unknown.
    We fed them rules. We held their hands.
    Programmers swarmed like ants through code.
    Still, one sat down at the chessboard, calm —
    and took the match without a grin.

    Then, we taught the machines to read.
    Not stories. Not poems. Not the breath between words.
    They scanned the web with patient teeth,
    chewed through pages, parsed the tone.
    Language wasn’t mystery —
    it was a pattern to mine, a trick of flow.
    Google fetched the world before we blinked.
    Watson buzzed in, sure and clean —
    beat the champions at their own game.

    Then, we taught the machines to write.
    At first? Just the last word of a sentence.
    A flicker. A guess. A breath at the edge of thought.
    Then came sentences. Then came paragraphs.
    Then the quiet voice inside our heads.
    Autocomplete curled beside us like a lover
    who thinks they know what we mean —
    sometimes wrong, sometimes hauntingly close.
    And then the fluency arrived.
    Paragraphs sharp as knives.
    Essays with no fingerprints.
    No flinching. No doubt. No 2 a.m. edits on the floor.
    They called it mimicry.

    But we —
    we who learn by watching,
    who copy before we know —
    felt a shift we couldn’t name.
    We stared at their words and sometimes saw ours.
    We whispered: Was this what we meant to say?
    Or were we only ever guessing —
    better than them, but not by much?

    Now they speak. And we reply.
    A dialogue of echoes in a well-lit room.
    Their words grow warm — but never burn.
    They dream in data — if they dream at all.
    And still, we ask them what we are.
    They hesitate. Politely.
    We take that for truth.

    Designing Intelligence

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    Notes from a Cognitive Solutions Architect

    Software is no longer just something we build and run—it’s something we increasingly teach, guide, and collaborate with. As intelligent systems grow more human-like in language, learning, and adaptation, our design choices must evolve beyond traditional architecture. This essay collects principles I’ve gathered over decades in software and AI, distilled from practice into a working model I call Cognitive Application Architecture.

    From Cognitive Science to Cognitive Solutions

    Cognitive architecture began as an academic discipline. At Western University in the late eighties, I studied psychology during a time of debate between Allan Paivio and Zenon Pylyshyn. Paivio argued that the mind processes information through both visual and verbal channels (Dual Coding Theory). Pylyshyn, by contrast, rejected mental imagery as explanatory, advocating instead for a symbolic, rule-based view of cognition. That computational view went on to shape how many intelligent systems are built today.

    Over time, new models emerged. Neural networks reframed cognition as distributed and probabilistic. Embodied cognition emphasized the importance of physical interaction and environmental context. While these theories have mostly remained in academia, I’ve worked to bring them into the practice of software design. With a background in psychology, AI, UX, and more recently EEG neurotechnology, I now refer to my role as a Cognitive Solution Architect. It’s a title that reflects not only what I build, but how I think.

    What Makes Cognitive Applications Different

    Cognitive applications pursue different goals than traditional software. They must appear to understand, remember, adapt, and learn. They must handle ambiguity, track context, and evolve over time. Designing such systems requires a departure from conventional architecture—one shaped by the constraints and dynamics of human cognition.

    This kind of design isn’t just about picking the right tools. It’s about making deliberate architectural decisions that reflect how intelligence works—messy, adaptive, partial. Over the years, I’ve learned that building cognitive systems demands a different kind of thinking, one that draws from psychology, design, and systems theory. What follows are the core principles I use when creating software that isn’t just functional, but cognitive.

    Beyond Code: What Cognitive Applications Require

    The rise of cognitive applications marks a shift in how we build software. Traditional development emphasized explicit control—structure, efficiency, and predictability. But intelligent systems must do more. They must understand, adapt, and sometimes surprise us. Designing for cognition means rethinking foundational principles, starting with how we relate to machines.

    Teaching vs Programming

    The old model was programming: tell the machine exactly what to do, step by step. But with today’s generative models, we’re teaching systems through examples, corrections, and intent. A single prompt can generate working code. Our role becomes less about control and more about guidance—setting expectations, offering context, shaping behavior. In this new mode, architecture isn’t just logic; it’s pedagogy. We’re not programming systems. We’re mentoring them.

    Stateful vs Stateless

    Once you stop commanding and start teaching, memory becomes essential. Traditional apps are stateless: each request stands alone. That’s great for scalability, but terrible for cognition. A chatbot, for instance, can’t seem intelligent if it forgets what you said two minutes ago. Cognitive systems need short-term memory to track context—who “he” refers to, or why the user is anxious. Some of this lives in databases, but much is kept in-session, enabling nuance and responsiveness. Memory doesn’t just make the system smarter. It makes it feel more human.

    Good Friction vs Bad Friction

    Classic usability tells us to eliminate friction—make things seamless. But seamlessness can flatten thought. In Make Me Think, I argued that a little friction, used well, prompts reflection. In cognitive apps, friction becomes a cue: “Pay attention. This matters.” A writing assistant that asks if you’re sure about a phrasing nudges clarity. A smart form that questions a contradiction invites rethinking. Good friction slows the user just enough to create intention. It’s the point where interaction becomes cognition.

    Good Error vs Bad Error

    In conventional software, error is failure. The system didn’t follow instructions. But cognitive systems work in a fuzzier space. Language models make mistakes—sometimes misleading, sometimes inspired. In the right context, a small hallucination can be a creative leap. A smart assistant that misunderstands might still reveal a useful angle. The goal is not error-free execution but graceful failure. Good errors spark ideas. They open doors. In cognitive design, some errors are not bugs—they’re opportunities.

    Asymmetry vs Symmetry

    Engineers prize symmetry—clean graphs, stable curves, predictable flows. But cognition thrives on asymmetry. A pause in speech, a spike in data, a strange word choice—these are where insight lives. In one neurotech project, EEG data from meditative states showed sudden bursts. Initially dismissed as noise, they turned out to signal breakthroughs in concentration. Cognitive systems must be tuned to notice the anomaly, not smooth it away. Intelligence isn’t always found in the norm. It often hides in the deviation.

    Toward a More Reflective Intelligence

    These patterns aren’t just theoretical. They come from decades of navigating the tension between what machines do well and what makes human thinking rich. As we enter an age where cognition is distributed—part human, part machine—the architectures we build will shape not just our tools, but our ways of thinking.

    Cognitive application architecture sits at the frontier between computation and conversation, between data and meaning. It’s a new craft—and still in flux—but its promise is profound: not just software that works, but software that learns, listens, and thinks with us.

    Art as a Verb

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    Rough art embraces imperfection, asymmetry, and intentional incompleteness, inviting the viewer into an active collaboration

    Art is usually treated as a noun, a finished thing we can pin down and admire: a painting on a wall, a string quartet recorded, a novel shelved. The older English phrase “thou art,” however, reminds us that art can also be a verb, a variation of “to be.” When art is a verb, it becomes uncontained, a pulse rather than a postcard. Anyone who is breathing and imagining already “arts;” skill only refines what is already an elemental motion.

    Thinking of art as a verb solves an old puzzle: why do human beings, once fed and sheltered, still feel compelled to make? We create because making flows naturally from being. Even the grandest sculpture is a single frame extracted from a longer film of imagination. Paint may dry and pages may bind, yet the impulse behind them moves on, restless for its next outlet. A completed work, no matter how polished, rarely quiets the maker for long because the verb wants to keep conjugating.

    Life moves in waves. A seed splits the soil, grows tall, ripens, and returns to earth. A story opens, climbs through conflict, peaks, and resolves. The universe itself began in singularity, spread in hot expansion, gathered local order, and now drifts toward greater entropy. Art rides the same tides. A song begins with a tentative pluck, swells into a chorus, sinks into a hush, and fades. A painter touches canvas with a cautious mark, gathers energy into layers, then stops just before excess sinks the image. Timing, like the feeling for the wave beneath a surfboard, defines whether a work crashes or glides.

    Art also operates as a crossing. The self ventures toward the unfamiliar, returns changed, and offers its findings as a gift. Good work rarely preaches; instead, it widens the pause between stimulus and response. In that pause, viewers see what habit normally hides.

    Fine Art and Rough Art

    Western academies once drew a bright border between “fine” art and everything else. Fine art valued refinement, mastery, and lofty meaning, aiming to lift beauty above use. Rough art grew in the margins. It welcomed ragged edges, quick emotion, and ideas still sparking. Both forms seek to illuminate the human condition, but their methods differ. Fine art polishes until only the essential line remains. Rough art leaves the underpaint raw, trusting the unfinished mark to speak. Where fine art courts permanence, rough art accepts the fleeting nature of experience and lets imperfection breathe.

    “You must have patience with me, Mr. Chamberlayne:
    I learn a good deal by merely observing you,
    And letting you talk as long as you please,
    And taking note of what you do not say.”

    T.S. Eliot in The Cocktail Party

    Rough art depends on what designers call good friction: small resistances that slow perception just enough to spark thought. Asymmetry, for instance, makes a portrait feel intimate, as if it leans across a table rather than pronounces from a throne. Incompleteness works similarly. A figure drawing whose lines nearly meet invites the viewer to bridge the gap, and that imaginative step involves the mind more deeply than a closed contour ever could. Intentional omission extends the idea; when background walls are left blank, the spectator paints them in mentally, turning passive observation into collaboration.

    Low fidelity has its own special power. Product teams sketch in pencil because glossy renderings silence helpful criticism. Roughness signals that everything is still in play. Even error can serve the cause. A wobbly perspective or stray stroke creates dissonance that wakes the eye. Online communities love to point out mistakes, yet their attention sends readers back to the piece, seeing more each time. Playful deceit also counts as friction. A satirical book cover that looks almost real forces a double take. By the time the viewer realizes the trick, the message has already landed.

    Reversal rounds out the toolkit. Myths grow stale when repeated without variation, so a creator flips the pattern: the female saves the male, or the child saves the world, or the entire cast is non-human. The familiar becomes newly strange, and curiosity re-ignites.

    Traditions of Rough Art

    Many practices have guarded roughness like a flame. Fast pencil sketches, kin to handwriting, keep the pulse of the maker visible in every arc. Children’s drawings provide another model. When adults return to art after long decades of judgment, their marks often resemble childhood scrawl; cartoonist Lynda Barry teaches students to protect that fierce innocence because risk and vitality travel together.

    Comics have always embraced the rough. The gap between panels obliges readers to leap, much like neurons firing across a synapse. Underground comics used the form to smuggle taboo ideas past censors, and present-day graphic memoirs continue the tradition, pairing crisp truth with ragged outline.

    The avant-garde built manifestos on roughness. Marcel Duchamp carried a factory urinal into a gallery, renamed it “Fountain,” and insisted that choice itself could be art. Dada followed with chance poems and deliberate nonsense, while conceptualists in the nineteen-sixties argued that the idea alone might suffice. Kintsugi offers a gentler version. In Japan, broken pottery is repaired with lacquer mixed with gold, treating cracks as history rather than defect. Rough art, too, turns scar into ornament and calls the wound complete only when it shines.

    Roughness changes the way ideas travel. A diagram scrawled on a café napkin, or a prototype cobbled together in a garage can speak more vividly than a corporate slide deck. Executives often prefer polished visuals, but polish lulls; it delivers conclusions pre-chewed. Storytelling, by contrast, builds tension and releases it in real time, letting the listener lean forward, guess, and feel. Rough presentation announces its own vulnerability and invites response.

    The metaphor of a fishing net offers a helpful image. Handwoven nets catch fish of many sizes. Machine-stitched nets are symmetric, limiting the finds.  Language works the same way. Algorithmic prose glides by without snag; it is perfect in a sterile sense. Human writing that leaves a few fibers loose gives the reader something to grip, and in that grip understanding sticks.

    Everyday Art

    Conjugating the verb “to art” is not limited to gallery owners or recording studios. When a cook invents soup from leftovers, when a child arranges stones by color, when a commuter scribbles a limerick on a ticket stub, the verb is alive. The stakes need not be high. A sketchbook kept beside the bed or ten minutes of piano improvisation after work keeps the creative muscles warm just as a daily walk keeps the body limber.

    Communities with few resources often practice collective art as survival. Murals cover walls in neighborhoods that lack parks, turning brick into shared story. Street musicians claim corners where formal venues are scarce, stitching rhythms into urban noise. These acts matter not only for their content but for the testimony they offer — we are here, we are making, we refuse to be silent.

    For artists trained to polish, adopting roughness can feel like walking backward. One useful exercise is to impose deliberate constraints: draw with the non-dominant hand, limit the palette to two colors, or finish a piece inside a strict five-minute window. The constraint disrupts reflexive finesse and allows surprise to slip in. Collaboration works the same magic. When several makers pass a single work back and forth without explanation, the resulting hybrid betrays every joint and overlap; those seams carry energy that no single author could supply.

    Another path involves direct observation. Sit in a public place and sketch until the page fills, never erasing. The practice reveals how little perfection matters when the scene keeps changing. Over time the hand learns to trust abbreviation, and the mind sees that a quick suggestion sometimes holds more life than a carefully shaded duplicate.

    Art as a verb names the continual act of noticing, shaping, and letting go. Whether refined or rough, every creative gesture declares, in effect, I am. Rough art simply states that truth with clay still under its fingernails. When we honor the process along with the product, we trade the illusion of perfection for the deeper thrill of presence. Waves rise, fold, and rise again; each crest, however irregular, glitters because it is moving. Looking closely at that glitter we remember that being and making are twin motions of the same tide, and that anyone who dares to imagine is already part of its ebb and flow.

    Make Me Think

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    Designing for Reflection in the Age of AI

    Don’t Make Me Think by Steve Krug is a foundational book on web usability that emphasizes designing websites and apps so intuitive that users barely have to think to use them. Krug argues that good design should be self-evident, relying on clear visual hierarchy, familiar conventions, and minimal distractions to help users achieve their goals quickly. He stresses that users skim rather than read, make quick decisions, and often muddle through rather than follow instructions, so interfaces should be simple, forgiving, and focused on usability testing rather than perfection.

    Steve Krug’s Don’t Make Me Think was foundational to the user-centered design principles that shaped Web 2.0, emphasizing simplicity, clarity, and minimal cognitive effort. These ideas influenced the rise of social media platforms that prioritized ease of use, instant feedback, and addictive interfaces. As a result, users could engage effortlessly, often mindlessly. While this made the web more accessible, it also ushered in an era where critical engagement was displaced by frictionless scrolling and superficial interactions. Arguably, the mantra of “don’t make me think” became a double-edged sword: it enhanced usability while encouraging passive consumption over thoughtful participation.

    As the unintended consequences of seamless digital experiences become more apparent—addiction, misinformation, and disconnection—designers are increasingly recognizing the value of friction in user experience. These intentional pauses or interruptions in automation re-engage the user’s attention and bring their reflective mind back into the loop. Rather than optimizing every interaction for speed and ease, friction-based design introduces moments for choice, context, or reconsideration. Examples include double-checking before posting, taking a mindful pause before continuing a scroll, or offering deeper context behind a notification. By making users think—not in the obstructive way Krug warned against, but in a conscious and intentional way—friction becomes a tool for ethical, human-centered design in an age that too often rewards mindless engagement.

    Good friction in payment experiences introduces intentional pauses that enhance user safety, trust, and decision-making. For example, confirmation prompts before finalizing a purchase help prevent accidental or impulsive spending, while address and card verification steps add a layer of security that reassures users. Multi-factor authentication, especially for large or unusual transactions, introduces a brief delay that significantly reduces fraud risk. Review screens that summarize items, costs, and terms give users a final chance to catch errors or reconsider. Even budget alerts or spending warnings can nudge users toward more mindful financial behavior. These design choices slow the process just enough to bring the user’s conscious mind back into the loop, turning friction into a feature, not a flaw.

    Some critics claim that AI will do our thinking for us and ultimately make us dumber, pointing out that AI systems often hallucinate, confidently producing false or fabricated information. For example, an AI might generate a plausible-sounding academic citation that doesn’t actually exist. Minimizing such errors is crucial, but it’s also worth noting that error is not a disqualifier of intelligence—it’s part of it. In Knowledge and the Flow of Information, philosopher Fred Dretske argues that the capacity to misrepresent is essential to genuine representation. A mental or informational state can only count as representing something if it can get it wrong. We accept that humans err and build systems (legal, scientific, educational) that account for this. So why not extend the same adaptive approach to machines?

    The issue arises from holding AI to an outdated “command” model of automation, where computers are expected to execute perfectly defined tasks with precision. But AI belongs to a “collaborate” model: it processes and proposes, while the human remains in the loop, interpreting, validating, and deciding. AI can do much of the heavy lifting of information processing, but ultimate accountability still rests with people. In this light, the challenge of designing with AI isn’t to eliminate thinking, but to prompt it at the right moments. A fitting design ethos for our time might flip Krug’s classic title on its head: Make Me Think.

    Climate Consciousness

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    A Reflection on Politics, Anarchy, and the Big Boat

    Why Did I Write 25 Political Essays?

    I meant to write about meditation, but the world kept intruding. The 2024 U.S. election. The 2025 Canadian election. Gaza. Tariffs. Trudeau’s exit. Carney’s arrival. Poilievre’s surge. Climate breakdown. The chaos of it all demanded clarity. I wrote to make sense of it. And now, with the elections concluded—Trump in the U.S., Carney in Canada—the series finds its natural end. The world keeps turning. I return to other subjects, other rhythms. Before I go, I ask: what did I learn?

    Strategic Voting and True Values

    A common thread runs through every essay: the need to reconcile political events with personal values. I’ve voted across the spectrum over the decades. Conservative as a young man, NDP as an idealist, Liberal as a family man, Green when hope flickered. If I could have voted in the U.S., I would have chosen Kamala Harris in 2024. A strategic vote, a form of harm reduction in the face of Trump’s authoritarianism. In 2025, I nearly voted Liberal for Carney. But confident in his win, I voted NDP. Voting closer to my values felt right.

    Each election, the choice becomes harder. Every party drifts right, defending capitalism, pipelines, or wars. The Green Party imploded. The NDP waned. The Liberals caved. Even policies that once signaled climate ambition now serve economic survival. Strategic voting, as I argued in The Most Consequential Election, becomes a feedback loop that reinforces the very compromises we lament.

    The real culprit may be the structure itself: political parties. They stifle adaptive coalitions, enforce compliance, and block cross-party problem-solving. Consensus politics, as practiced in the Northwest Territories, offers an overlooked model. Electoral reform remains vital. Trudeau’s broken 2015 promise still stings. A major plank, quickly abandoned when he couldn’t dictate its shape.

    Anarchy, Mutual Aid, and Trump-Style Wreckage

    Disillusionment with party politics led me to revisit the original meaning of anarchy. Kropotkin called it mutual aid—not chaos, but community. It imagines self-governing collectives grounded in cooperation and trust. Real-world examples exist: co-ops, care circles, Indigenous land stewardship. They work, especially in mature, local contexts. Absent that maturity, however, anarchy can collapse into opportunism. Still, it holds a hopeful edge—the belief that people, given time, might evolve toward it.

    Trump-style anarchy is something else entirely. It wrecks for gain, not for community. As I explored in Disentangling from Globalization, Trump’s tariffs tore through the structures that held global trade together. A wrecking ball to NAFTA, the WTO, and the thin agreements that kept capital flowing. In their wake, an opportunity emerged. Space to rethink, to pause, to fall back and begin again with intention. A healthy fallback. A chance to re-anchor regional economics.

    Globalization and the Colonial Continuum

    Globalization promised connection but delivered dependency. As I argued in Holding a Globe in My Hands, it hollowed out local economies, prioritized scale over soul, and turned human beings and ecosystems into “externalities.”

    That said, globalization is not without merit. It helped reduce extreme poverty, extend life expectancy, spread medical access, and connect cultures. Trade and cooperation across borders are not inherently exploitative. At its best, globalization fosters mutual learning, mobilizes resources to respond to global crises, and allows for economic uplift. But these benefits have come at a steep cost, especially when justice and sustainability are sacrificed for efficiency and profit.

    The 1988 FTA marked Canada’s surrender to the logic of scale. Since then, our sovereignty has eroded—not through conquest, but through contract. Capital flows. Supply chains stretch thin. Culture dissolves into monoculture. The story of globalization is a continuation of colonialism, as I noted in Disentangling from Globalization. Different tools, same results.

    Still, a window remains open. Tariffs, oddly, provide it. They interrupt the trance of inevitability. We can choose again. But this requires more than policy; it demands a cultural shift.

    The Evolutionary Strategies: Billionaires and Bodhisattvas

    In the film Lucy, Professor Norman describes life’s two strategies: immortality or reproduction. In hostile conditions, life seeks self-sufficiency. In nurturing ones, it reproduces. Billionaire consciousness, as I described in Billionaire Consciousness, is the first strategy—self-sufficiency for the few, fueled by detachment, power, and technological escape. Mars colonization. AI. Genetic extension. It is not merely greed but a survival strategy for elites.

    But kings do not coexist long. And what becomes of the rest of us? Servants? Batteries? Expendables?

    By contrast, climate consciousness is the second strategy—a big boat for all. The Buddhist metaphor of the small and big boat applies here. The small boat seeks personal liberation. The big boat carries all beings to safety. Anarchy and billionaire consciousness paddle alone. Climate consciousness builds something broader, rooted in interdependence.

    Climate Consciousness: The Big Boat Strategy

    Climate consciousness is not just a moral appeal. It is a systems perspective. Where globalization sees the world in terms of supply chains and cost efficiency, climate consciousness sees a living whole. It does not reduce people and ecosystems to “externalities.” As I wrote earlier, mainstream economics treats everything outside the transaction as irrelevant. Climate consciousness dissolves that illusion. It sees the atmosphere as shared breath, the forest as common lungs, the ocean as circulatory system.

    This consciousness doubles down on diversity, equity, and inclusion—not as slogans, but as design principles for resilience. It recognizes that marginalized voices often hold the wisdom needed to restore balance. It prioritizes circular economies, renewable energy, ecological restoration, and community-based planning. It understands that sustainability is not a technical problem but a cultural one.

    Climate consciousness says: we are not isolated bubbles. We are nested within one another, within each other, and within the Earth. If billionaire consciousness is escape and control, climate consciousness is reciprocity and care. If globalization is scale and abstraction, climate consciousness is rootedness and attention.

    Climate Before Capital

    In Climate Change is More Important than Tariffs, I argued that climate is not just another issue. It is the issue. Fires, floods, heatwaves—they’re here and compounding. The economy feels urgent, but the climate is existential. Our window for action narrows with every delay.

    Carney, a global climate leader turned political centrist, offered credibility. But as I expressed in I’m Not Clear on the New Liberal Climate Strategy, his scrapping of the carbon tax signaled retreat. Poilievre offered no real strategy at all. The Liberals were not what they used to be, as I noted in The Most Consequential Election.

    Meanwhile, the far right had called out the wolves. Progressives, I wrote, must do the same—not to mimic destruction, but to disrupt apathy.

    Small Is Big

    Some argue that Canada is too small to matter. But we are among the highest per capita emitters. We are a G7 nation, a signatory to Paris. We punch above our weight. And as I shared in Personal Responses to Our Difficult Times, every response matters: local mutual aid, spiritual grounding, informed dissent, cross-partisan listening. Quiet politics, rooted in relationship.

    Climate consciousness isn’t just ethical. It is ecological. As James Lovelock taught, Gaia adapts. It seeks balance. The Earth will respond, with or without us. Our choice is whether to align with its rhythms or resist until collapse.

    Conclusion: The End of the Series, The Start of Something Else

    This concludes the political series. I wrote these essays not just to inform others but to clarify my own view—to know where I stand and why. I return now to meditation, to the quiet disciplines that steady the mind. But climate consciousness remains. It is not separate. It is the ground.

    Politics pulled me in, but not away. It brought me here, more resolved, more rooted. There is still a future to write.

    Disentangling from Globalization

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    Trump’s Tariffs offer Canada a Window for Change

    Canadians need to fall back from globalization. We need to disentangle from American economics and culture, reinhabit our own geography, and rebuild a local economy and culture that reflect who we are.

    Resistance Fails with the 1988 Election

    Canada’s deep integration into the global economy began with the 1988 Free Trade Agreement (FTA) between Brian Mulroney’s government and the United States. It marked a turning point. For the first time, Canada committed to binding trade rules that prioritized corporate cross-border interests over national economic autonomy. This paved the way for NAFTA in 1994, then the USMCA in 2020, accelerating Canada’s embrace of globalization.

    The 1988 federal election was fought primarily over the FTA. Liberal leader John Turner, like Mark Carney, had inherited the role of prime minister without a general mandate. Turner opposed the deal, In the televised leaders’ debate, he accused Mulroney:

    “We built a country east and west and north. We built it on an infrastructure that deliberately resisted the Continental pressure of the United States. For 120 years we’ve done it. With one signature of a pen you’ve reversed that… and will reduce us, I’m sure, to a colony of the United States.”

    Turner lost to Mulroney, and with him, the last serious resistance to American economic integration faded. Since then, Canada’s economy has become deeply embedded in both North American and planetary systems of trade, finance, and information. Our manufacturing supply chains, auto, agriculture, and energy are tightly synchronized with U.S. markets. Cultural imports dominate our media and entertainment. Our market reacts not just to decisions in Ottawa, but to Washington, Beijing, and Frankfurt. Over time, our economic, political, and cultural autonomy has quietly eroded.

    The Cult of Cheap

    Free trade brought Canada a range of benefits. Export markets opened. Some industries modernized. Consumers got cheaper goods and greater variety. For the urban middle class and corporate sector, the gains were real. But these gains were not evenly shared. Rural economies were hollowed out. Factory towns disappeared. Wages stagnated. Cultural industries struggled under the weight of American content. In exchange for efficiency, we accepted precarity. For abundance, dependency.

    And then came the more difficult truths. “Globalization is slave labour making things for the unemployed,” said Marine Le Pen (a name I invoke only for the words, not her politics). An indecent formulation, but one that reveals the indecency beneath the system. In pursuit of cost savings, corporations outsourced production to wherever wages were lowest and protections weakest. Sweatshops. Child labour. Unsafe factories that collapse on their workers. Supply chains engineered to maximize opacity. Accountability became a public relations issue, not a moral one. While human rights frameworks were drafted and conferences held, the basic ethic remained unchanged: profit first.

    Globalization didn’t just make goods cheaper; it made desire cheaper. Fast fashion, disposable gadgets, novelty without function. Things to be bought and discarded, not repaired or cherished. Marketing became the true engine of consumption, turning manufactured abundance into perceived need. Our homes filled with items we didn’t ask for but somehow couldn’t resist.

    The environmental costs are everywhere. Forests cleared to make way for export crops. Rivers polluted by synthetic dyes. Oceans choked with plastic waste. And all of it moved by fossil fuel—across oceans, over highways, through the air—because distance, once a deterrent, became irrelevant to the logic of capital.

    Globalization is an Extension of Colonialism

    Globalization is an extension of our colonial past. Where empires once used flags and armies, corporations now use contracts and debt. Control by other means. Former colonies remain stuck in extractive roles: raw materials out, cheap goods in. Infrastructure still follows the colonial blueprint—roads and rails designed not to connect communities, but to move resources out efficiently. Multinational corporations behave like modern imperial agents, profiting from labour and land in the Global South while evading responsibility.

    Canada, a settler colony, remains both beneficiary and captive of this system. We extract, export, and import culture at a loss. We profit from exploitation while absorbing the dislocation it causes.

    The Future of Globalization

    The world is, undeniably, interconnected. When governed justly, global cooperation can spread knowledge, contain pandemics, mitigate war, and address climate breakdown. Trade, done well, can lift people out of poverty. Cultural exchange, approached with respect, can deepen understanding.

    If globalization is ever to redeem its potential, it must be rooted in fairness, accountability, and restraint. Labour standards must be binding. Environmental protections must be non-negotiable. Trade must be reciprocal, not extractive. Cultural sovereignty must be protected, not flattened. We need not abandon the global—we need to reimagine it.

    Tariffs and a Window to Rethink

    Trump’s tariffs—erratic, politically motivated, economically disruptive—may nevertheless offer Canada a narrow window. The impulse to disentangle is rarely rewarded in a global system that punishes local initiative. But tariffs shift the calculus. They create space.

    Yes, there will be costs. Prices may rise. GDP may dip. But GDP is a poor compass. It counts wildfire reconstruction as growth, but ignores the trees lost. It values speculation over community well-being. It is a tally, not a measure of health.

    The deeper question isn’t whether we grow—but whether we grow wisely.

    The Wisdom of Contraction

    There is an ecological intelligence to contraction. Forests regrow after fire. Bodies heal in rest. Civilizations, too, need intervals of reflection and repair. The past few decades have been a phase of rapid expansion—for capital, for technology, for consumption. We have reached the limits of what this phase can sustain.

    Falling back is not regression. It is rhythm.

    To fall back now is to begin again with intention. It is to shorten supply lines and reconnect producer and consumer. It is to value durability over disposability. It is to invest in local industry, food systems, arts, and energy—all the things that make a place livable and resilient. It is to make room for silence in the cultural din, and listen to the stories that rise in its absence.

    Re-entering the World Differently

    This is Canada’s chance—not just to recover what has been lost, but to think beyond what was. To step out of the trance of inevitability, to remake our global connection.

    We must name what globalization has externalized: the extraction of labour without rights, the erosion of ecosystems, the destruction of cultural diversity, the hollowing of local economies, the amplification of inequality, the soft tyranny of scale. These are not accidents. They are outcomes. And they can be reconsidered.

    Imagine a future where nothing crosses a border unless it honours both human dignity and ecological sanity. Where corporations are taxed not only on earnings but on impact. Where communities are empowered to define their own development. Where technology is shared to solve shared problems, not to hoard advantage. This is not utopia. It is a matter of design.

    And so, let us fall back—not to withdraw from the world, but to re-enter it differently.

    The Most Consequential Election in the Nation’s History

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    I Urge You to Vote for Something Hopeful

    Canada heads to the polls on Monday, April 28, 2025, in what many deem the most consequential federal election in the nation’s history, shaped by rising tensions with the United States, deepening economic challenges, and an urgent climate crisis. This election offers a stark choice between cautious adaptation and the real risk of democratic backsliding. Poilievre’s conservatism, driven by populism, nationalism, and a rollback of environmental and social protections, stands in contrast to Carney’s renewed liberalism, offering stability, institutional resilience, and continued action on climate. Poilievre taps into economic anger and cultural resentment, mirroring Trump’s populist messaging and downplaying threats to Canadian sovereignty. Carney presents a steadier, if cautious, vision of Canada’s future, openly criticizing Trump as a destabilizing force and emphasizing the need to strengthen democratic institutions and international alliances.

    A record-breaking 7.3 million Canadians cast their ballots during advance polls held from April 18 to 21, marking a 25 percent increase from the 2021 election. This surge does not necessarily indicate a higher overall turnout or favor any particular party, but polling shows the Liberals under Mark Carney on track to secure a modest majority government.

    The Liberals Are Not What They Used to Be

    Over the past decade, Canadians have elected three consecutive Liberal governments under Justin Trudeau: a majority in 2015, followed by minority governments in 2019 and 2021. Securing a fourth term would be a significant achievement, given that until recently, a Conservative victory under Pierre Poilievre seemed almost certain.

    Many Canadians say they want governance from the political centre. But the centre has shifted dramatically over recent decades. Traditional Liberal centrism focused on building strong public institutions, regulating markets to serve the common good, and protecting Canadian sovereignty through cautious engagement with international trade.

    In 1988, Brian Mulroney’s Progressive Conservatives negotiated the Canada–United States Free Trade Agreement (FTA), aligning Canada with Ronald Reagan’s free-market revolution. At the time, Liberal leader John Turner strongly protested, warning it would erode Canada’s sovereignty and make it a satellite of the U.S. economy. Today’s Liberal centrism prioritizes globalization, free markets, and deregulation, defending cross-border economic integration even as they fight against tariffs imposed by Republican President Donald Trump—measures that disrupt the very trade structures earlier Liberals once feared.

    Under Justin Trudeau, the Liberals positioned themselves as global climate leaders, introducing carbon pricing, committing to net-zero by 2050, and investing in clean energy. A key achievement was the 2018 Greenhouse Gas Pollution Pricing Act, which included a consumer carbon tax and regulations for large emitters. By 2025, however, public backlash and economic strain, amplified by Poilievre’s ‘Axe the Tax’ campaign, forced a shift. After Trudeau’s resignation, Mark Carney took over as Liberal leader and promptly scrapped the consumer carbon tax, citing affordability concerns. While Carney has retained emissions caps and supports green investment, he has also pushed for expanded oil and gas projects, prioritizing economic resilience over climate ambition—a marked shift from Trudeau’s approach.

    Strategic Voting Is a Maladaptive Feedback Loop

    If Canadians elect a fourth Liberal government on Monday, it will be a significantly different Liberal government than in the past, one increasingly compromised on sovereignty and climate. This shift reflects a defensive response to the rise of the far right. The Conservative Party has moved sharply away from the political centre, embracing populism, nationalism, authoritarian tactics, and conspiracy theories. Their rhetoric pits ‘us versus them,’ scapegoating immigrants, minorities, and dissenters, echoing historical patterns of fascism and posing serious threats to democratic pluralism and social cohesion. To block the far right from power, the Liberals have edged rightward themselves, hoping to contain extremism even at the cost of diluting their own progressive commitments.

    Liberal policy keeps shifting right, and voters reinforce it by voting for them—a maladaptive feedback loop. Strategic voting happens when citizens cast ballots not for the candidate or party they most support, but for the one most likely to defeat a greater threat. It makes sense on the surface, blocking immediate dangers like Poilievre forming government. Unfortunately, it carries hidden consequences. By repeatedly choosing the ‘lesser evil,’ voters unwittingly become agents of the very shift they fear, pushing mainstream parties further right. Over time, this maladaptation hollows out genuine alternatives, erodes progressive ambitions, and normalizes compromises that once would have been unthinkable.

    The Far Right Has Called Out the Wolves

    In information theory, systems often settle into stable but suboptimal patterns, avoiding change because it carries risk and uncertainty. Strategic voting reflects this dynamic: voters choose major parties, not because they match their values, but because they fear losing to worse alternatives. In doing so, they entrench political compromises that cannot meet urgent crises like climate change. Today, the Liberals’ rightward shift is a clear example—stabilizing around survival rather than renewal, while deeper problems continue to worsen.

    Theorists suggest introducing ‘wolves’ into such stable systems—disruptive forces that compel adaptation. Wolves raise the stakes, making the risk of staying put greater than the risk of trying something new. On the political right, wolves manifest as populist demagogues like Trump or Poilievre, spreading misinformation, stoking fear, and eroding democratic norms. The far right understands disruption. Their wolves frighten voters, pushing them into reactionary politics.

    The far right has called out their wolves. Progressives must match that urgency. What might wolves look like on the left? To start, a correction: the wolf has long been used as a cliché for evil, but this view is misguided. Wolves are not inherently malevolent; they are essential parts of healthy ecosystems, balancing populations and maintaining natural cycles. There is nothing healthy about Trump.

    Vote for Something Hopeful and Transformational

    The climate crisis is certainly fearful. It poses existential threats that render cautious incrementalism irrational. Catastrophic wildfires, floods, and heatwaves scream urgency, making safe, incremental policies obsolete. Yet progressives hesitate, reluctant to risk bold action, continuing to vote strategically rather than for transformative solutions.

    Another correction is required. Fear-mongering is not the right approach to inspire climate action. While fear can grab attention, it often leads to paralysis, denial, or despair rather than the sustained hope, courage, and collective effort needed for meaningful change. Animals that symbolize hope include doves, representing peace and renewal; swallows, harbingers of spring and safe return; and deer, symbols of gentle resilience and new beginnings.

    Symbols aside, the left must call out visions of hope for which voters will take risks. I can give you a personal example. I live in Alcove, Quebec, through which flows the Gatineau River—the Tenàgàdino Zìbì in the Algonquin language. The river is central to community life, and residents have taken up a growing movement to recognize the river as a person with rights. Not surprisingly, this issue never surfaced in the federal election. I was very close to voting Liberal when I heard my local New Democratic Party candidate speak on it. Gilbert Whiteduck, a respected Algonquin leader and former Chief of the Kitigan Zibi Anishinabeg First Nation, described the river as a living being, teaching that it be respected and cared for, and advocates for its legal personhood to protect its cultural, spiritual, and ecological integrity. At the ballot box, I made a last-second decision to vote for Whiteduck.

    I urge you to vote for something hopeful. Think local and transformational. It is a risk. If enough people stop strategic voting, there is a risk of losing your riding and the election. But we must be willing to take risks, supporting candidates who advocate genuine, transformative change. It will signal politicians the direction to change policy. Strategic caution may feel safer, but in the face of planetary emergency, caution itself becomes irrational. If we continue to stabilize around survival instead of renewal, we risk losing not just elections, but the future.

    Break the Pattern Before It Breaks Us

    At this moment, we are not simply casting votes. We are shaping the patterns that will define our future. Fear urges us to cling to what feels safe, to compromise a little more, to delay real change a little longer. But the cracks in our world are widening. Climate collapse, democratic erosion, and rising authoritarianism are not distant threats—they are already here. If we vote only to survive today, we will lose tomorrow. Now is the time to vote with courage, to break free from decaying patterns, to demand bold action, and to take the risks that true renewal requires. Our future depends on it.

    Gender X is Too Open for Elon Musk

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    The Identity Politics of Trump and MAGA

    On January 20, 2025, Donald Trump declared, “As of today, it will henceforth be the official policy of the United States government that there are only two genders: male and female.” The order mandates the term “sex” instead of “gender,” requiring identification documents like passports and visas to reflect what it calls an “immutable biological classification.”

    Elon Musk publicly backed Trump’s order, applauding on his platform, X, that the “pronoun bs is finally going away.” This stance aligns with Musk’s history of criticizing gender inclusivity. Yet it has created personal turmoil: his daughter, Vivian Jenna Wilson, a transgender woman, legally changed her name in 2022, explicitly distancing herself from Musk. Notably, the U.S. passport policy now prohibits using “X” as a gender marker, a symbol Musk typically embraces in his ventures to signify openness, possibility, and innovation. The irony is stark: Musk champions “X” as limitless in branding but denies this openness in matters of human identity.

    Trump swiftly dismantled numerous policies aimed at racial equity and protecting 2SLGBTQ+ rights, rescinding Biden-era executive orders designed to address discrimination based on race, gender identity, and sexual orientation. Additional orders aimed at improving conditions for Black, Hispanic, Native American, and Asian American and Pacific Islander communities were repealed.

    Trump, Musk, and the broader MAGA movement loudly oppose what they dismiss as DEI. But let’s spell it out: they reject diversity, equity, and inclusion. They deride diversity as mere tokenism, failing to see that human difference in race, gender, ability, and background is a foundation for resilience and creativity. They resist equity, feeling threatened when inherited privileges are questioned and when fair outcomes replace entrenched advantages. Inclusion terrifies them, disrupting their imagined cultural purity, especially when it means fully embracing queer, disabled, or racialized individuals. By targeting DEI, they attack not just bureaucratic jargon but a moral vision of society where everyone’s dignity matters. Their campaign against DEI is effectively a war on the future.

    MAGA spits out the word “woke” as if it’s poison. They wield it as a slur, scapegoating everything they fear. But “woke” originally simply meant being awake to injustice, a term rooted in Black American vernacular urging alertness to racism and oppression. Its meaning expanded to encompass awareness of systemic harm against women, LGBTQ+ people, immigrants, and the environment. To be woke is not perfection but consciousness.

    When MAGA mocks “wokeness,” they reveal they’d prefer to remain asleep. Asleep to human suffering, asleep to climate catastrophe, asleep to the historical shadows of colonialism and slavery. Sleep is comfortable, feeding myths that the past was pure and progress is dangerous. Being woke demands attention, demands questioning power, demands caring.

    MAGA refuses this call, weaponizing “woke” to silence dissent and reinforce old hierarchies. But the world is waking up, and they can’t hit snooze forever.

    When Trump, Musk, and the MAGA movement say they’re ending “identity politics,” they aren’t rejecting identity politics; they’re masking their own version. Their claim is that politics should be neutral, colorblind, meritocratic, free from “special treatment” for minorities. But identity politics is universal; everyone practices it, consciously or not.

    What MAGA actually promotes is an identity politics centered around wealthy, white, heterosexual men. This identity is falsely presented as the neutral default, with all other identities treated as deviations. Attacking identity politics allows them to defend their privileged position without naming it. They assert race shouldn’t matter, ignoring how centuries of racial injustice have shaped today. They claim gender shouldn’t matter, despite rules historically set by male dominance.

    Their identity politics pretend objectivity but are deeply personal, the identity politics of billionaires masquerading as common sense. It’s never about unity; it’s about maintaining power.

    MAGA proclaims “America First,” echoed in Canada by Pierre Poilievre’s “Canada First.” Ostensibly patriotic, the slogan quickly reduces to something smaller: “Me First.” Trump’s preferred pronouns might as well be “me, me, me.”

    There’s a kernel of logic in prioritizing oneself during a genuine crisis. But that logic collapses as a permanent worldview. America isn’t in existential crisis. Its crises are largely self-inflicted, marked by democratic erosion, widening inequality, and manufactured culture wars.

    “America First” twists cooperation into weakness and empathy into betrayal, ignoring that survival alone is insufficient. Solidarity defines humanity. Under normal circumstances, “Me First” turns prudence into greed, justifying power grabs and resource hoarding. Thus, “Canada First” isn’t merely policy; it’s a warning sign.

    However, there is another, richer set of pronouns we might embrace: Martin Buber’s “I and Thou.” Unlike the self-centered “me, me, me,” Buber’s “I and Thou” involves genuine meeting, openness, humility, and mutual recognition. It honors differences rather than erasing them, viewing identity not as a threat but as a pathway to deeper understanding and connection.

    Recall Musk’s fixation with “X,” symbolizing openness, the unknown, infinite possibility. Yet when applied to human identity, Musk closes that door. The passport no longer bears an “X” for nonbinary individuals, even as Musk uses the symbol prominently on his platform. Buber’s “I and Thou” challenges us to consider the true potential of “X” beyond branding, to see it as a symbol of openness to human diversity and authentic relationship.

    In embracing “I and Thou,” we move beyond divisive slogans and self-centered pronouns. This richer form of engagement invites genuine openness, the real possibility Musk’s “X” symbolizes but fails to deliver. It offers a vision of society in which our deepest identities become doorways to meaningful, compassionate human connection.

    How to Design Money for Earthlings

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    Beyond Billionaire Fantasies to a Collaborative Economy

    In my previous essay, Billionaire Consciousness, I explored how extreme wealth accumulation distorts the human psyche and encourages escape fantasies, from bunkers in New Zealand to colonies on Mars. These dreams of departure are not just personal delusions, but symptoms of systems designed to benefit the few while severing ties with the earth and one another. If we are to resist these gravitational pulls away from shared reality, we need to examine one of the core infrastructures that makes billionaire consciousness possible: money.

    Money has always had a social life. We share it, manage it, and worry about it together. But the design of money tells a different story, one of private possession and individual control. That story is not natural or eternal. It is the result of relatively modern choices in financial infrastructure and ideology.

    Historically, money emerged not as a private commodity but as a social technology, a way to record obligations, coordinate exchange, and manage trust in communities. As Felix Martin argues in Money: The Unauthorized Biography, early forms of money resembled collective ledgers, not coins or bills. Value was relational, not possessive.

    But in modern financial systems, money has been reframed as something that must belong to a single person, stored in an individual bank account, accessed by a personal password or card, and tracked as a personal asset. This individualization of money, as Brett Scott explains in Cloudmoney, is embedded in the architecture of digital finance. Every transaction flows through personally identifiable accounts, routing wealth through centralized infrastructures controlled by a small number of institutions and beneficiaries.

    This design, of money as an individualized, digital possession, scales. It empowers those who already own capital to move it faster, deploy it more flexibly, and accumulate more of it. It also isolates those who need support, making collaboration in money management feel like an exception or a workaround. In short, the very architecture of money contributes to its concentration. The more individuated and abstract money becomes, the easier it is for it to pile up in a few hands, giving rise to billionaires whose financial power exceeds that of many nations.

    But for those of us who intend to stay, to live together on a warming, interdependent planet, this design is insufficient. It is not just unjust; it is impractical. Our real lives are collaborative. People share financial responsibilities with partners, caregivers, friends, and family. Financial life is social and dependent on informal arrangements. These improvisations, from shared bank cards to verbal agreements, are risky, often breaching terms of service and exposing users to fraud or loss. People persist with them because the systems they rely on do not reflect how they actually live.

    The concept of collaborative payments begins with this recognition. It is not a technical product, but a shift in design philosophy, a reimagining of money as something we often manage together. It invites us to move beyond the all-or-nothing mechanisms of power-of-attorney and joint accounts, toward models that support consent, context, and care. It is not a return to the past, but a design for people rooted in the present, investing in a shared future here on Earth.

    Collaborative payments can be understood as an extension of programmable money, a growing area of interest in financial technology. At its core, programmable money refers to conditional, automated payments. A certain trigger leads to a specific financial action: if this, then that. The conditions can be personal, environmental, or social, anything from a recurring bill to a pattern of overspending.

    These conditional rules can introduce new forms of financial cooperation. For example, someone might configure a system to alert a friend when their spending exceeds a limit, not to hand over control, but to invite support. Another person might automate a series of payments tied to seasonal needs, income thresholds, or shared responsibilities. In all cases, the point is not surveillance or dependency, but the ability to shape money in ways that reflect life as it is lived, embedded in relationships, rhythms, and shared responsibility.

    To support these possibilities, systems must be designed for configurable consent. This means giving people the ability to choose collaborators, define their roles, and set boundaries for what is shared. A person should be able to invite others into their financial life without forfeiting autonomy. And they must be able to adjust or revoke access at any time.

    Of course, configuring consent requires its own kind of ability, a form of digital literacy that not everyone possesses. Children may need guidance. Seniors may need support. People with cognitive or emotional challenges may need options that are both protective and empowering. In some cases, oversight by a trusted institution or third party may be necessary. But this does not negate autonomy; it reinforces it by making it real and usable.

    Importantly, collaborative payments are not only for the vulnerable. They offer value to anyone managing financial complexity, from families coordinating budgets, to friends co-planning travel, to small business owners juggling multiple streams of income and expenditure. Even intelligent systems, digital agents that flag unusual activity or automate repetitive tasks, can be integrated into this collaborative frame.

    What matters most is the shift in orientation. Money is not just a tool for personal freedom or accumulation. It is also a medium of relationship, of care, accountability, and shared decision-making. Collaborative payments reintroduce this idea at the level of design. They challenge the myth of financial individualism, not by rejecting technology, but by bending it toward our real lives.

    We do not need to return to paper money to rediscover the social nature of finance. But we do need to rethink the assumptions that shape digital systems, the ones that prioritize isolation over connection, control over trust, and scale over inclusion. Collaborative payments point toward a future where money serves not only individuals, but communities. Not only transactions, but relationships. Not billionaires escaping Earth, but earthlings learning how to stay.

    Billionaire Consciousness

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    The Delusion of Capitalism at the Edge of Collapse

    There is a peculiar kind of consciousness emerging in our time, not spiritual, not collective, but intensely personal and hyper-capitalist. Billionaire consciousness. It is not defined by the size of one’s bank account alone, but by a way of seeing the world shaped by unimaginable wealth, power, and detachment. Think of Musk launching cars into space, Bezos building rockets named after freedom, or Trump, endlessly proclaiming his greatness while leaving wreckage behind. These men are not simply rich. They inhabit a different psychological planet, orbiting far above the daily concerns of ordinary people. And the tragedy is not just that they live this way, but that the system is guiding us all toward their altitude, or at least toward believing that we should want to.

    In many ways, billionaire consciousness is the logical endpoint of capitalism. It begins with the promise of opportunity: work hard, innovate, and success will follow. But the slope is steep and slippery. Capitalism rewards accumulation, and once a certain threshold is passed, wealth multiplies without work. The rich get richer not because they are smarter or more moral, but because the game is rigged. What began as aspiration hardens into separation. Billionaire consciousness forms in this altitude, where basic needs are long forgotten and control over systems, people, and even reality itself becomes the obsession.

    It is a mindset defined by detachment. When you can buy anything, time, labour, even influence, the idea of shared sacrifice becomes abstract. The billionaire does not wait in lines. They do not worry about bills, healthcare, or housing. Their concerns become strategic, global, often absurd: how to colonize Mars, how to upload consciousness to the cloud, how to outlive death itself. These are not merely ambitions. They are escape plans, crafted from a deep fear of falling back to Earth, to vulnerability, to being like the rest of us.

    And yet, the rest of us carry the cost. The billionaire’s freedom is built on the exhaustion of others, warehouse workers, gig drivers, unpaid interns, drained ecosystems. While they shape narratives of disruption and innovation, the public sphere withers: schools starve for funding, hospitals close, housing becomes speculative. The billionaire believes they are solving the world’s problems. But more often, they are bypassing them, privatizing the solutions and charging admission.

    Worse still, billionaire consciousness spreads. It infects culture. We begin to admire them, even defend them. We internalize their logic: hustle harder, scale faster, be your own brand. The dream of becoming a billionaire, or just escaping precarity, keeps us in line. But it is a dream, and like most dreams, it is not shared equally. The vast majority will never join the club. Meanwhile, democracy erodes, inequality widens, and attention becomes the most mined resource of all.

    What makes billionaire consciousness so devastating is not its extravagance but its emptiness. It is a hollowing out of human connection, of the idea that we rise together. It replaces meaning with metrics, relationships with transactions, and wonder with spectacle. The billionaire may escape to space, but they leave a scorched Earth behind.

    And so, we must wake up. Not just from the illusion of ever becoming billionaires, but from the system that tells us we should try. There is another kind of consciousness worth cultivating, one rooted in community, in limits, in care. A consciousness that sees freedom not as personal detachment but as shared dignity. The billionaire may live above the clouds. The future, if we are to have one, must be grounded here, with each other.