 I published an essay on Medium comparing two songs that have become cultural touchpoints for queer identity—Lady Gaga’s "Born This Way" and Chappell Roan’s "Good Luck, Babe!"
The essay explores how both songs reflect and shape ideas about authenticity, identity, and emotional truth. While "Born This Way" was once seen as radically affirming, it’s now the subject of critical reappraisal. Meanwhile, "Good Luck, Babe!" has been widely praised—but is it also open to critique? I approach both songs with curiosity and compassion, drawing on perspectives from psychology, Buddhism, and gender studies. Here is an excerpt from the essay: ...All three frameworks suggest that identity is like a river: it is constantly flowing and changing; and it can be hard to fully grasp in a few simple words. Which is why I’ve come to see “Born This Way” not as wrong, but as partial. It’s not the end of the conversation; it’s one chapter in it. The critique of “Born This Way” made me reflect on what it means to move from being born a certain way to becoming who you are. These two ideas don’t have to contradict each other. A person might indeed have deep, early-rooted feelings of identity — and still experience change, transformation, or expansion. Framing identity as becoming makes room for both stability and fluidity. That thought became a transition point for me. It helped me better appreciate the emotional truth of “Born This Way” while also feeling ready to consider other songs that address identity and denial from a different angle. That’s when I turned to “Good Luck, Babe!”... Keep reading here!
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 I’ve just published a new page in my hypertext project Me, Looking for Meaning. It’s called “What Is Human Thinking?” and it explores what our thoughts really are—and how much (or how little) control we actually have over them.
We often treat thinking as a sign of intelligence, as if it’s always good to “think things through.” But thinking isn’t always rational, linear, or fully ours. Thoughts can be nonlinear, associative, deeply shaped by culture, and often invisible to us in the way they form. In this essay, I reflect on where thoughts come from, how they’re influenced by past experiences and society, and how they differ from animal cognition. I also briefly touch on the modular model of the mind and the variety of thinking styles (topics to be explored in future essays). If you’ve ever wondered why your brain suddenly jumps from one idea to another—or why some thoughts seem to arrive uninvited—this essay is for you. Read the new essay here As always, thank you for following along. [This update will be included in my next newsletter. If you are interested in receiving updates, please scroll down to sign up.]  In the essay that I shared in my previous post, I explored some big questions: What is reality? What is truth? And why do we so often clash about both?
Among other things, I briefly mentioned two metaphors that help illuminate our differences: the tale of the blind men and the elephant, and the story of Rashomon. I have now written a follow-up essay that zooms in on those two stories. This essay will be included in my Newsletter #15. If the previous essay was a wide-angle view—about truth, perception, and the paradoxes we live in—this new one focuses more narrowly on metaphor. It compares the hopeful image of the blind men trying to understand the elephant with the unsettling ambiguity of Rashomon. Together, these metaphors offer two different models of how humans experience and navigate reality. Here's an excerpt from the latest essay: You’ve probably heard it. Several (in some versions, three) blind men come across an elephant for the first time. One touches its side and says, “It’s like a wall.” Another feels the trunk: “No, it’s like a snake.” A third grabs a leg and insists it’s like a tree trunk. They all argue, each sure they’re right. And in a way, they are right. But also… not really. Each of them has grasped a part of the whole, but because they won’t listen to each other, none of them understands the full picture. It’s a popular metaphor for truth—and one that makes us feel hopeful. If we could just learn to listen to each other’s perspectives, then maybe we could combine them and arrive at a deeper understanding. It’s a bit like solving a jigsaw puzzle. Everyone has a piece, and if we put them together, we’ll finally see the elephant. That’s how I used to think about it. I still find the metaphor useful. It encourages humility. It reminds us that each person sees the world from a different angle, shaped by culture, experience, emotion, and language. And it offers a model for how dialogue might help us make sense of reality. But over time, I began to feel that something about this story didn’t quite fit. I started wondering: what if we’re not all touching the same elephant? What if we’re not even in the same room?.. Want to know more? Keep reading here!  I’ve just published a new page in my hypertext project Me, Looking for Meaning.
This one is called Reality: A Paradox We Live In, and it explores why we so often clash over what’s true—and what that reveals about how we perceive reality. Here is a short excerpt: We argue about reality all the time—though rarely do we use that word. We debate what’s right and what’s wrong, what really happened, who’s to blame, and what’s true. These arguments often rest on hidden assumptions: that there is a reality “out there,” that humans can comprehend it, and that some of us have access to it while others don’t. But what if these assumptions are flawed? What if reality is, as Jung suggests, a paradox—something inherently incomprehensible to the human brain? This doesn’t mean that we must give up on truth or live in nihilism. It means that truth and reality deserve more nuanced thinking—especially if we want to understand ourselves, others, and the world more deeply... You can continue reading here.  Image credit: Igor Omilaev I recently published a new essay on Medium titled AI and I: Creativity.
In it, I reflect on my evolving relationship with AI tools in my writing and research practice. The piece is personal and exploratory—an attempt to be transparent about how I use AI, and why I find it meaningful. Some of the key points I explore:
I’d love to hear your thoughts—whether your process looks similar or very different. *This poem was shared in Newsletter #14. You can find my other video poems here. If you like my work, please consider subscribing below. This is one of my older Russian poems, featured in a video where I read the original aloud, with English subtitles providing the translation.
The poem captures a quiet sense of longing and emotional distance between two people who walk the same streets but remain out of step. Using urban imagery and gentle personification, it reflects on the feeling of being unnoticed and the tender wish to be seen and cared for. Text in English (translation): You walk along these streets. The walls of buildings recognize you. You do not feel the gazes of their windows, Yet they wait for you every day. Through the blinding whiteness—blindly, Through the coffee-like slush—when it's above freezing, Under an umbrella—stepping on broken pieces of the sky, I hurry, I hurry, I hurry. I greet every little window, But they are talking about you... It stings a bit, and it makes me sad: I wish someone looked after me like that! The walls of buildings, silent and stern, Pretend that they are not sad. You walk along these streets. And so do I. But always out of step. Text in Russian (original): Ты проходишь по этим дорогам. Стены зданий тебя узнают. Ты не чувствуешь взглядов их окон, А они каждый день тебя ждут. По слепящему, белому—слепо, По кофейному месиву—в плюс, Под зонтом—по осколочкам неба Тороплюсь, тороплюсь, тороплюсь. Я здороваюсь с каждым окошком, А они говорят о тебе… И обидно, и грустно немножко: Мне бы кто-нибудь в след так глядел! Стены зданий в молчании строгом Притворяются, что не грустят. Ты проходишь по этим дорогам. И я тоже. Но все невпопад.  Image credit: Raphael Brasileiro *This essay has not yet been featured in the Newsletter. I plan to continue sending the Newsletter no more than once a month. Any blog posts published on this website between issues will be included in the next edition, either as full text or as links.
Complicating our understanding of power in general, and power imbalances in particular, is not just a scholarly pursuit—though I approach it as a scholar of society and human nature. It is also a spiritual pursuit, as I’ve come to realize in the course of this project. For me, one of the most vital aims of examining power is the possibility of restoring human connection. But that is also where the idea becomes most fraught. The very notion of extending human connection to someone who has caused harm can provoke deep discomfort, even outrage. After all, perpetrators—some will argue—do not deserve connection. Only their victims do. When I speak about compassion—particularly about extending understanding to those who have committed harmful acts—I often encounter a deeply emotional, and entirely valid, response: But think about what they did. People begin recounting the crime in detail, the suffering of the victims, the irreversible harm done. How, they ask, can one possibly shift attention to the person who caused it? Isn’t that a betrayal of the victim’s pain? My answer is: I do think about the crime. I do grieve for the suffering. My heart bleeds when I learn what people are capable of doing to one another. But that’s precisely why I want to prevent such suffering from happening again. And I believe one of the most powerful ways we can do that is by trying to understand—not excuse, not justify, but understand—the person who caused the harm. This isn’t about minimizing a crime or denying justice. It’s about resisting the temptation to treat people as only good or only bad. Real change, especially the kind that reduces future harm, requires us to move beyond punishment and toward insight. Understanding the perpetrator—what formed them, what shaped their choices, what inner forces were at play—can illuminate the deeper roots of violence. And only when we see those roots clearly can we begin to address them at the level where prevention is possible. To hold complexity does not mean we betray the victim. In fact, it may be the truest way to honor the pain: not by staying in the cycle of retribution, but by breaking it. We can—and must—mourn the suffering, enforce consequences when needed, and still refuse to give up on our capacity to understand. Compassion for the complexity of human behavior is not a weakness. It is one of the strongest tools we have for building a future where less harm happens in the first place.  Image credit: Linken Van Zyl *This essay was shared in Newsletter #14. If you like my work, please consider subscribing below.
When we talk about power today, especially in activist and academic circles, we often treat it like a fixed possession—something you either have or don’t. Some people are powerful, others are powerless. This binary framing, shaped by critical theories of race, gender, class, and history, has helped spotlight injustice. But it can also flatten our understanding of what power actually is and how it works in everyday life. This page explores a smaller angle—one of many—from this broader project I'm developing on power as a nuanced and evolving phenomenon. Here, I want to ask: What if power sometimes means going against the flow, and other times, going with it? Power as Resistance: Going Against the Flow Most of us are familiar with the idea that power shows up when we resist. We see it when someone speaks up in a meeting where no one else dares to, or when a whistleblower exposes systemic wrongdoing. We see it when a person escapes a toxic relationship, challenges a law, or builds something new in a place where “that’s just not how things are done.” This form of power is active, visible, and often disruptive. It’s about standing against the current, reshaping the environment, saying no when everyone else is saying yes—or saying yes when everyone else is saying no. Think of Rosa Parks refusing to give up her seat. Think of someone quietly working to rebuild their life after addiction, despite stigma and setbacks. All of these are forms of power that show up in resistance, transformation, and deliberate effort. But this isn’t the only kind of power there is. Power as Acceptance: Going With the Flow There’s another form of power—quieter, subtler, and often overlooked—that lies in acceptance. Not passive resignation, but active, courageous letting go. This is the kind of power that comes from aligning with reality instead of endlessly trying to fight it. Aging is one example. The world is full of messages that aging is a problem to solve. Entire industries profit from the fear of wrinkles, slowness, and change. But what if true power, in this case, is not in resisting aging, but in embracing it? To accept that the body will change, to grieve what must be grieved, and still live fully—this is a different kind of strength. It’s the power of presence, not performance. And in many ways, it’s harder to cultivate than the power of resistance, because it asks us not to fix but to stay. A Buddhist Perspective: Flow Without Struggle In Buddhism, there’s a deep understanding of the impermanence of all things. Everything flows—feelings, identities, seasons, lives. To fight this flow endlessly is to suffer. To align with it is to see clearly, and perhaps even to be free. There’s a well-known teaching in Buddhism: “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.” Power, in this light, is not the ability to eliminate pain or control everything. It’s the ability to remain steady and open in the face of change. It’s recognizing that we are not outside the flow, but part of it—and that how we relate to it matters. This kind of power doesn’t look dramatic. It doesn’t always make headlines. But it changes people, and through people, it changes the world. Both Are Power So, is power resistance? Yes. Is it also acceptance? Also yes. To live powerfully, perhaps, is to learn when to go against the flow—and when to go with it. To discern whether the situation calls for action or surrender, building or yielding. And to recognize that both can take courage. Both can be transformative. And both are necessary. Power is not always about control, domination, or even defiance. Sometimes, it is about harmony, humility, and grace. The most powerful people are not always the ones shouting from the rooftops, but the ones who have learned how to swim with the current when the river calls for it—and to climb the bank when it doesn't.  Image credit: Versailles by Stephanie LeBlanc I’ve been learning more about AI and experimenting with how it can support my creative work. Below is an AI-generated summary of an essay I wrote about Louis XI, which I originally shared here over a year ago. You can find the full essay here. Did Louis XIV Really Have Absolute Power?
At just four years old, Louis XIV became king of France. By the time he died, his reign had lasted 72 years—the longest of any European monarch. Yet, despite ruling from a glittering court at Versailles and becoming the symbol of absolute monarchy, Louis XIV's power was never as total as it appeared. Historian Philip Mansel offers a nuanced portrait in King of the World: The Life of Louis XIV. Although Louis XIV projected strength and control, his reign reveals that power was always entangled with limitations. As political theorist Keith Dowding puts it, "absolute" monarchs still had to negotiate with the nobility, the Church, and internal bureaucracy. Louis XIV was no exception. Childhood and Powerlessness Louis became king at just four years old after his father’s death in 1643, but real governance remained in the hands of his mother, Queen Anne, and Cardinal Mazarin until Louis took over in 1661. His early years were marked not by luxury, but by political instability, civil war (the Fronde), and personal insecurity. Mansel writes, "Even at the age of two, Louis was a pawn in his parents’ marriage." At court, he was raised in a minefield of ceremony and intrigue. Though his mother instilled in him a belief in divine kingship, it is clear that his earliest lessons were in powerlessness. A Monarch Who Worked When Mazarin died, Louis surprised his court by declaring, “I am determined henceforth to govern my state by myself.” He worked obsessively, attending council meetings nearly every day, dictating letters, and overseeing even military strategies. Despite this, Mansel notes: “Despite the King’s hard work, many believed that he could be ‘absolutely governed by his ministers.’” Louis wanted to embody the state, but in reality, he was often overwhelmed by the machinery of governance and the limits of what he could personally control. Versailles: Power on Display Louis transformed Versailles into a symbol of royal magnificence. He micromanaged its design, visited the site frequently, and even wrote a guidebook for showing guests around the gardens. But the accessibility he cultivated at Versailles also signaled his dependence on appearances. The public was usually welcome in palace gardens, and ceremonies like the King’s lever and coucher were open to courtiers, sometimes to the point of chaos. As Mansel observes, “Not even Louis XIV, for all the fear and awe he inspired, was in total control.” The Contradictions of War Louis inherited a strong France, yet his aggressive foreign policies left it financially drained and diplomatically isolated. His desire for glory—sometimes masked as strategy—contributed to unnecessary wars, like the War of Spanish Succession, that devastated his country. One war minister wrote that Louis wanted to show he could conquer "solely by his own judgement," but these military decisions often backfired. The King micromanaged battles from afar, sometimes undermining his own generals. His final wars brought France to the brink of ruin. Religious Zealotry Louis's revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685, which had guaranteed rights to Protestants, was one of his greatest errors. He believed Catholicism was essential to French identity and his own divine authority. Yet, by expelling or converting Huguenots—many of whom were skilled professionals—he weakened the economy and further alienated Europe. Ironically, his alliance with the Muslim Ottoman Empire and tolerance of Protestants in Alsace contrasted with his persecution at home. Mansel calls the revocation of the Edict "his single greatest mistake." Power and Powerlessness Louis XIV was certainly powerful—he centralized authority, built a cultural empire, and dominated European politics for decades. But he was also deeply limited:
He cultivated the myth of absolutism, but as his reign progressed, even his admirers grew wary. After his death, public reaction was mixed: solemn tributes alongside mocking songs and laughter. Why This Matters My goal is not to excuse Louis XIV's actions, but to show how human fallibility, emotional needs, and inherited meanings shaped his decisions. He was not just a king with power; he was a person subject to the same psychological and social forces that affect us all. Yes, he made catastrophic mistakes. But those errors were forged in the crucible of court expectations, childhood traumas, and unexamined ideologies. As Mansel notes, Louis XIV "helped unite Europe against France," but he also gave France much of its modern identity. Final Reflection If Louis XIV could see how he is remembered—as a patron of the arts and architecture, but also as a deeply flawed ruler—would he feel pride or despair? Probably both. His life, like all lives touched by great power, illustrates this paradox: the more power one seems to hold, the more one is shaped by forces beyond one’s control. Understanding that paradox is not an act of forgiveness. It is a call for empathy—and for humility, especially in our judgments of others.  I am happy to report that I have just completed the online course "AI for Editors: Intro" taught by Erin Servais. It was a great experience! I have learned how to incorporate AI tools in my work responsibly and efficiently. You can read about this course here. (It is not an ad, I just really liked it!)
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