These are additional assets related to this Substack post on Alfred North Whitehead’s Science and the Modern World, the chapter on Quantum Theory. It starts like this…
I’ve just finished Whitehead’s chapter on quantum theory in Science and the Modern World. Allowing for the obvious fact that he’s writing from the vantage of 1925, I found this chapter considerably closer to my own way of thinking than some of what preceded it.
What particularly caught my attention was his treatment of the electron.
The classical picture encourages us to imagine a tiny object orbiting a nucleus, rather like a planet around a star. Even when we know that this picture is inadequate, the noun electron still invites us to imagine some enduring thing which persists whilst changing position or state.
Below are summaries in video and podcast format as well as 16 related PDF slides. The fill article is available on my Substack.
In this Substack essay, I explore the flawed nature of human comprehension, arguing that our understanding is often just a calculation of probability rather than an objective grasp of truth. By examining linguistic errors like misheard lyrics and his own struggles with French phonemes, Willis demonstrates that humans frequently hallucinate or misinterpret data based on what seems most plausible. He compares these mental lapses to the ‘hallucinations’ of Large Language Models, suggesting that the mistakes made by AI are fundamentally similar to our own. The author contends that we apply a double standard by granting humans the status of ‘understanding’ while dismissing machines for the exact same predictive behaviours. Ultimately, the text challenges the metaphysical assumptions of human exceptionalism, asserting that what we call ‘understanding’ is merely an external attribution rather than a unique internal state.
Essentially, I am not advocating the view that LLMs have consciousness and understanding; rather, I am arguing that the human versions of these are inflated with metaphysics.
This is the second of a deeper look into ten philosophical positions. This one is on mediated encounter realism (ontology) within the category of metaphysics and ontology. A full article is available on Substack, with supporting information on a recent post here on Philosophics Blog.
The question is reasonable, although belief may already be doing more work than I would permit it under cross-examination. My writing is generally diagnostic rather than doctrinal. I am more interested in identifying the architectural assumptions beneath a dispute than in selecting a furnished room within it. Where philosophy offers a contest between established positions, I often suspect that the arena itself has been badly designed.
Still, repeated diagnoses eventually disclose a pattern. Certain commitments recur: suspicion of substance, resistance to metaphysical inflation, distrust of linguistic confidence, rejection of moral realism, scepticism toward persistent personal identity, and an insistence that mediation does not entail fabrication.
What follows is therefore neither a creed nor a completed system. It is a provisional map of where I presently stand.
The labels are intended as coordinates, not allegiances. Where no established term quite fits, I have used my own. This is partly unavoidable and partly evidence for the very linguistic difficulty I spend so much time diagnosing.
This content, including video and podcast summary, are of a longer Substack article on my philosophical positions with descriptions.
Responding to a post, I found myself returning to that iconic, routinely misrepresented scene from The Matrix: the one with the spoon. The scene has been dragged through so many motivational seminars, self-help swamp rituals, pseudo-Buddhist wall decals, and entrepreneurial cocaine-affirmation threads that it now arrives pre-misunderstood.
Video: Bonus Content
Even Baudrillard distanced his work from the version of simulation the Wachowskis made cinematic. This is not a criticism, exactly. Film has two hours to smuggle metaphysics through leather coats, sunglasses, and slow-motion firearms. One makes allowances. Philosophy, alas, has fewer trench coats and more footnotes.
‘Now’ is one of the most overconfident little words in the language. It presents itself as immediate, self-evident, and available. We speak as though it names the present cleanly: now I speak, now I decide, now I know, now is the moment. Yet the word performs a small fraud every time it appears. By the time ‘now’ is recognised, it has already slipped into retention. By the time it is spoken, it has become a trace.
‘Now’ is not an experienced unit but a heuristic boundary-marker within temporal flow. It names a vanishing horizon between retention and protention: already past by the time it is recognised, already structured by what is expected before it can be stabilised. What it designates isn’t a thing, not a slice, not a metaphysical bead on the string of time, but a practical fiction by which consciousness, language, and action coordinate within a moving field.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
This distinction matters because philosophy has often treated the present as though it were the privileged site of certainty. Presence has been taken as the place where reality gives itself without delay, mediation, or distortion. The present moment becomes the imagined sanctuary of immediacy: before memory corrupts it, before language deforms it, before interpretation arrives with its grubby little toolkit. But this pure present is nowhere to be found. It’s not hidden; it’s impossible.
Experience is never given as a dimensionless instant. To experience anything at all requires temporal thickness. A sound must persist long enough to be heard as a sound. A word must unfold across time to become intelligible. A gesture is not apprehended as a gesture unless its beginning is retained and its likely completion anticipated. Even the flash, the shock, the sudden pain, the glimpse at the edge of vision, all require some minimal structure of retention. Without that structure, there isn’t immediacy but nothing recognisable as experience.
Husserl saw part of this with his account of retention and protention. The present isn’t a sealed point but a flowing field in which the just-past and the about-to-arrive are already implicated. A musical note isn’t heard as an isolated acoustic atom. It’s heard as part of a phrase, against what has preceded it and toward what may follow. The same is true of speech, perception, decision, and action. The present is always already fringed. It’s bordered by memory and expectation. It’s not pure presence but organised passage.
Derrida presses the wound further. If the now is always contaminated by what is not-now, then the metaphysical dream of presence collapses. The present cannot ground meaning because the present is never simply present. It arrives marked by absence, delay, difference, and trace. The spoken now does not deliver the present. It testifies to its disappearance. It isn’t the arrival of immediacy but the inscription of loss.
This isn’t merely a technical problem in phenomenology. It has consequences for how we think about agency, meaning, and reality. We routinely speak as though action occurs in a present moment of self-possession: I now choose, I now intend, I now decide. But this grammar flatters us. Decision is never contained in a punctual present. It condenses prior dispositions, pressures, perceptions, habits, bodily states, histories, and anticipated consequences. The now of decision is a narrative compression imposed after and within a process that exceeds it.
The same applies to moral and institutional language. Law loves timestamps. Bureaucracy loves decision-points. Politics loves moments. Each requires a tractable ‘now‘ because institutions must act, record, assign, and close. The administrative present is useful because it can be filed. But usefulness shouldn’t be mistaken for ontological depth. A timestamp isn’t the structure of temporality. It’s a human coordination device, a nail hammered into water.
The now survives because it’s pragmatically indispensable. We need it to coordinate action. ‘Do it now’ doesn’t mean ‘act in a dimensionless metaphysical instant’. It means ‘act within the authorised window of urgency established by this utterance’. The operational now is a tolerance band, not a point. It belongs to practice, not purity.
This is why the present should be deflated rather than worshipped. The now isn’t an entity. It’s not a metaphysical foundation. It’s a boundary-function within temporal flow, a stabilising fiction by which agents orient themselves amid movement. It marks a horizon that vanishes as it is named.
The metaphysician wants the now to be a foundation; the phenomenologist discovers it as flow; the deconstructionist hears in it the trace of what has already departed. The institution converts it into a timestamp and pretends the problem has been solved. Each inherits the same word, but not the same burden.
To invoke ‘now’ is therefore not to seize presence. It’s to gesture at the impossible purity of presence from inside its failure. The word works, but it works heuristically. It coordinates, compresses, and stabilises just enough. What it doesn’t do is deliver the present as such. The now is always late to itself.
Allow me to start with a declaration: I am no Hegel expert, and whether I am an expert at anything is debatable. Still, I’ve been reflecting on Hegel through my own lenses, and I have an opinion – because of course I do. My comment isn’t on a single Hegel publication. Rather, it’s a commentary on some of his general ideas – some more specific than others – that just so happen to be rattling around my noggin as I type.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
I know I’ve already claimed to have started, but this is the real start. Let’s talk translations.
NotebookLM Infographic on this topic.
I recently discussed the problem with translating Meursault’s French maman. The short version: English lacks a clean equivalent. Every option – Mother, Mummy, Mama – over-interprets the son’s relation to his mother, leaning warmer or colder or more infantile than the French allows. Camus’ problem is at the level of affective register. The ambiguity is tonal, intimate, and culturally situated. English simply can’t carry it without choosing a side.
Hegel has a different problem, more philosophically weighty. His problem is Geist. Almost immediately, I think of zeitgeist and Poltergeist. Ghosts. Spirits. Phenomenology of Spirit, right? Easy peasy.
Not so fast. Some translators render it as Mind, in an attempt to distance themselves from theological baggage. The problem is that Hegel himself equivocates – so he’s of little help. He may have been intentionally cheeky, being stuck in the milieu of his day, as well as a product of it and producer through it.
Where maman exposes language’s insufficiency at the level of affective register, Geist exposes it at the level of metaphysical architecture. English can’t preserve the conceptual promiscuity by which Hegel binds mind, spirit, culture, history, and ontology into one unfolding term. The word doesn’t just mean something; it enacts a view of what is real and how the real moves. If that weren’t bad enough, enter ontological grammar commitments. (I’m a teetotaller, so someone else hold the bear.)
Video: Hold my bear
The translator is not neutrally asking: What does Geist mean? They are already asking, even if silently: What kind of reality do I think Hegel is describing?
Translation here isn’t the neutral transfer of meaning – it’s the exposure of ontological allegiance. The quarrel over Geist is not a lexical dispute. It is ontology laundering itself through vocabulary.
Let’s consider the two camps.
The Mind camp hears:
“You are importing theology into what is fundamentally a logic of intelligibility.”
The Spirit camp hears:
“You are evacuating the historical-metaphysical depth of the term and pretending Hegel was doing philosophy of cognition with better hats — nicer hats, perhaps, but hats all the same.”
Neither objection is irrational from within its own grammar. Both are locally coherent. They simply don’t share the same ontology of the term.
Reason doesn’t choose between Mind and Spirit from nowhere. It adjudicates from within a prior ontological settlement, then mistakes that settlement for neutrality. This is worth remembering well beyond the Hegel literature.
In disputes over Geist, reason doesn’t fail because the parties are irrational. It fails because each party’s reason operates inside a different ontological grammar. What appears as clarification within one frame appears as distortion within the other. A reason is not self-legitimating. It becomes a reason only inside a grammar that knows how to receive it.
Which brings us back to the title. Titration works when you have a known reagent and a neutral solvent – you add one to the other until the system reaches equilibrium. The whole method assumes there is an equilibrium to reach. Geist has no neutral solvent. Mind and Spirit are not two concentrations of the same substance. They are different substances, differently constituted, differently reactive. There is no volume at which one cancels the other out. You can titrate the word all you like. The indicator never changes colour. What you are left with is not a settled meaning but a record of your own ontological commitments, precipitated out of solution and sitting at the bottom of the flask – which, in the end, is more than most translations will admit.
Door Prize: Here’s your parting gift courtesy of NotebookLM…
A colleague recently shared an essay with me, The Return of Metaphysics: Reclaiming Sovereignty Through Ontological Grounding in Postcolonial and Western Thought. I read it with interest, not least because its target is one I share: the colonial imposition of Western categories as if they were universal reason, universal law, universal political form, and universal humanity. On that point, there is no meaningful disagreement. Colonialism isn’t merely theft of land, labour, and resources. It’s also the imposition of a grammar by which reality itself was made legible to power.
The essay is at its strongest when it treats colonialism as metaphysical violence rather than merely administrative domination. It argues that Europe universalised its own categories and rendered other worlds invisible, inferior, or unreal. Colonialism, on this account, was not only conquest. It was the installation of one ontology as the authorised operating system of the human. That’s a powerful diagnosis, and it deserves to be taken seriously. The essay explicitly describes colonialism as a process that ‘re-made being’ and suppressed other conceptions of time, morality, and community.
Where I start to hesitate isn’t in the critique of colonialism, but in the proposed recovery. The essay seeks to reclaim metaphysics, sovereignty, agency, moral authorship, and ontological grounding as instruments of postcolonial renewal. It wants to oppose colonial metaphysics by recovering metaphysics; to oppose hollow sovereignty by reconstructing sovereignty; to oppose imposed subjectivity by restoring moral authorship.
This may be coherent within the essay’s own frame. But from mine, it raises a suspicion:
What if some of the concepts being recovered are themselves part of the colonial inheritance?
“a return to metaphysics”
“moral authorship”
“ontological reconstruction”
“popular agency”
These terms don’t arrive clean. They carry histories and come with fittings: sovereignty, possession, self-rule, jurisdiction, authorship, legitimacy, command. One may repaint them in decolonial colours, but the shape remains. Inheritance is the danger.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
Sovereignty as a Recovered Trap
The essay’s central concept is sovereignty. More precisely, post-sovereignty. Yet the very act of preserving sovereignty as the problematic term matters. Sovereignty isn’t just a neutral container for self-determination. It’s one of the central concepts through which Western political modernity imagines authority: bounded, possessed, territorialised, juridical, and authorial.
To speak of sovereignty is already to speak in the grammar of command: Rules. Owners. Authorities. Something marks the line between inside and outside.
This doesn’t mean colonised peoples were wrong to demand sovereignty. The politically dispossessed may understandably seek the protections of the language used to exclude them. If one has been denied the status of a subject, a nation, or a people, then reclaiming those terms may be historically necessary. There’s no cheap purity available from the comfort of abstraction. Humans made the mess, naturally, and then handed each other dictionaries to clean the mess.
But political necessity doesn’t settle conceptual adequacy. A term may be strategically useful and ontologically suspect at the same time. So, the question isn’t whether sovereignty has been useful in anti-colonial struggle. It’s whether it should remain the destination, rather than a transitional vocabulary one eventually leaves behind.
The essay recognises that many postcolonial states retain the ‘juridical structure’ of autonomy whilst remaining governed by inherited categories of colonial law, property, development, and bureaucratic legitimacy. That’s exactly the point where the critique might turn more sharply on sovereignty itself. If postcolonial statehood often reproduces colonial form, perhaps the issue isn’t merely that sovereignty is hollow, but maybe it’s just one of the forms through which hollowness reproduces itself.
NotebookLM Infographic on this topic.
Agency: The Smuggled Protagonist
The same problem emerges around agency. The essay speaks of popular agency, moral authorship, co-authorship, and subjectification. Again, the impulse is understandable. Colonial domination denies people the right to act, name, interpret, and organise their own lifeworlds. A postcolonial theory naturally wants to restore capacity to those rendered passive.
But the agency term isn’t innocent. In modern Western thought, agency often implies a self capable of authorship, intention, responsibility, and moral ownership. It’s the protagonist required by law, markets, liberal politics, and punishment. Someone must be deemed the chooser, the signer, the sinner, the voter, the debtor, the criminal, the rational actor.
In my own work, I reject agency as a metaphysical possession. I’d rather speak of responsiveness: a variable capacity shaped by material, relational, temporal, somatic, and epistemic conditions. People don’t float above conditions and author themselves into freedom. They respond, more or less adequately, within fields of constraint.
The essay’s emphasis on relationality moves in this direction, but its vocabulary often pulls it back toward authorship. It wants shared becoming, but it also wants moral authors. It wants relational ontology, but it also keeps the self as a source of political meaning. This is a revealing tension.
The alternative isn’t fatalism. To reject agency isn’t to deny action. Breathing doesn’t require a metaphysics of breath. It just happens autonomically. The question is whether we must preserve the fiction of the authorial subject to describe them. I think not.
When Negation Need Not Become Synthesis
The essay leans on Fanon (see The Wretched of the Earth) to argue that colonial domination can’t be resolved through dialogue because dialogue presumes equals. This is right, or at least right enough. A conversation between master and slave is not yet a conversation between equals. Liberal dialogue presumes a shared field of recognition; colonial domination corrupts that field before speech begins.
The essay, therefore, turns to dialectic. Where dialogue seeks agreement, dialectic begins from contradiction and struggle. Again, this makes sense. A colonised subject can’t merely ask to be recognised by the system that produced their non-being. Something must be negated.
My hesitation concerns what happens after the negation. The essay sometimes seems to assume that contradiction must move toward ontological reconstruction. But why? If one term of the contradiction is an imposed colonial ontology, it might not deserve preservation within a higher unity because it mightn’t be a meaningful antithesis. It may simply be wrong, violent, and disposable.
This is the dis-integrative question:
Must the colonial term be synthesised, or can it be dispensed with?
Not every opposition is productive. Some oppositions are parasitic. If a worldview is imposed by force, then treating it as a dialectical partner may grant it more dignity than it deserves. The point of decolonial refusal may not be synthesis, but de-imposition.
That distinction matters. Synthesis often preserves too much. It lets the offending structure survive as a contributor to the next stage. It says, in effect: this violence was part of becoming. Perhaps. But perhaps not. Perhaps some concepts belong on the cutting room floor.
Metaphysics: Necessary Grammar or Rebuilt Throne?
The essay argues that postmodern anti-metaphysics has left social theory without stable categories of truth or moral orientation. It wants metaphysics back, not as abstraction, but as the recovery of moral and ontological grounds for political community.
I understand the concern here, too. Communities don’t live by procedure alone. No society is sustained merely by policy, rights language, or bureaucratic form. People inhabit worlds, not spreadsheets. There are ontological grammars beneath every institution: assumptions about personhood, time, land, memory, obligation, kinship, death, and belonging.
But I resist the move from ‘we can’t avoid ontological grammar‘ to ‘we need metaphysical grounding‘. Whilst the former seems unavoidable, the latter seems dangerous.
Metaphysics isn’t simply depth. It’s elevation – the move by which a grammar stops appearing as grammar and starts presenting itself as ground. It becomes the authorised deep structure, the thing beneath dispute, the foundation beneath the foundation. And foundations, as humans have demonstrated with astonishing consistency, are excellent places to hide power.
My preference is to minimise metaphysical devices. They’re unavoidable, but they’re liabilities.
Each one requires a leap. One leap may be necessary. Ten leaps become choreography. Eventually, the argument is no longer walking; it’s performing interpretive dance and calling itself ontology.
The Problem of Rebuilding
This is where my own Dis–integrationist commitments diverge most sharply from the essay. I’m a diagnostician. I deconstruct and name seams with no obligation to replace every collapsed universal.
The essay treats diagnosis as insufficient. It says the critique of sovereignty reveals a metaphysical vacuum, but diagnosis is not enough. Post-sovereignty must move toward ontological reciprocity, relational becoming, and shared labour of mutual recognition. Whilst this move is respectable. It’s also the one I distrust.
The rebuilding instinct is one of philosophy’s oldest addictions. Expose the flaw, draft the remedy, rebuild the edifice, declare the new form less violent than the old. This is how critique becomes renovation.
But the refusal to rebuild isn’t indifference, despair, or nihilism. It’s a refusal to let repair disguise itself as permanence. Care, maintenance, reciprocity, and local repair remain possible without metaphysical reconstruction. In fact, they may be more honest when stripped of the promise of final grounding.
Pedagogical Sovereignty and the Soft Machinery of Formation
The essay’s later sections turn to education. It proposes pedagogical sovereignty as a model of moral and ontological co-creation. The classroom becomes a site where being isn’t transmitted but collaboratively formed. Governance, by analogy, might become less administrative and more pedagogical: citizens not merely ruled, but constituted in relation. As attractive as this might be. it’s also perilous.
Education has always had this double face. It can liberate, but it can also format. It can open worlds, but it can also install authorised grammars. The classroom is not outside power. It’s one of power’s favourite incubators. The fact that it speaks gently doesn’t mean it’s not shaping bodies, subjects, desires, norms, and permissions.
To make pedagogy the model of sovereignty risks softening administration rather than escaping it. It may replace the command of the state with the formation of the subject. That may be better and subtler, but one should be careful when power arrives wearing soft shoes.
This doesn’t refute the essay’s educational turn, but it complicates it. If pedagogy is to be an emancipatory model, it has to preserve opacity, dissent, and non-formation. It needs to allow the learner not merely to become, but to remain partially unread, unfinished, and unintegrated. Otherwise, pedagogical sovereignty may become another normalising machine with better intentions and comfy chairs.
The Cutting Room Floor
My objection isn’t that the essay is wrong to oppose colonialism. Au contraire; its critique of colonial metaphysics is often compelling, and it’s preaching to the choir at the start. The issue is that its recovery project may carry forward more of the colonial-conceptual apparatus than it recognises.
The following terms deserve suspicion:
Sovereignty, because it preserves the grammar of possession, jurisdiction, bounded authority, and command.
Agency, because it preserves the authorial subject required by liberal law, market morality, and responsibility allocation.
Moral authorship, because it risks reintroducing the self as origin, even when collectivised.
Metaphysical grounding, because it may turn situated lifeworlds into foundations.
Reconstruction, because it assumes fracture demands repair, rather than sometimes demanding refusal.
Dialectical synthesis, because it may preserve the imposed term as a contributor to the future, rather than discarding it as an error condition.
None of these concepts must be rejected out of hand. That would be too easy. But they shouldn’t pass uninspected simply because they have been recruited into decolonial service. Fine. Use the master’s tools to dismantle the house, but don;t become too fond of them.
Toward De-Imposition
So, what then?
Dis–integration, not reconstruction
De-imposition, not anti-colonial sovereignty
Responsiveness, not agency
Relational maintenance, not moral authorship
Ontological grammar held visibly as grammar, not metaphysical grounding
This doesn’t mean communities should abandon their lifeworlds, traditions, or inherited moral vocabularies. It means those vocabularies shouldn’t need to become metaphysical foundations to matter. A world may be lived, tended, and defended without being inflated into ground.
The colonised don’t need permission from Western metaphysics to exist. Or me, for that matter. Nor do they need to rebuild themselves in metaphysical form to count as real. The refusal of imposed reality may be enough. After that, there may be practices, relations, institutions, memories, ceremonies, languages, solidarities, and forms of care. There may be politics and struggle. And, sure, repair and maintenance. But there needn’t be a new foundation.
Enfin
The essay I am responding to is valuable because it presses a real question:
If colonialism was ontological violence, can anti-colonial thought afford to remain merely procedural, linguistic, or diagnostic?
My answer is: diagnosis is not ‘merely’ anything. To diagnose is to identify the machinery by which certain concepts keep reproducing their own authority. If sovereignty, agency, authorship, and metaphysical grounding belong to that machinery, then they should not be automatically restored just because they have been wounded.
Some concepts can be reclaimed. Others should be retired. Some may be used provisionally, under protest, as transitional scaffolding. Again, others may belong on the cutting room floor.
The challenge isn’t only to oppose colonialism and its effects. It’s to notice when colonial grammar survives inside the opposition. That’s the harder work – less heroic, sonorous, and much less likely to produce a grand theory, but it may be more honest.
I’ve got a new annotated edition of Heidegger‘s Being and Time, and it’s got me thinking about time – and thinking out loud. Obviously, Husserl is invoked by Heidegger, and the notion of duration (via durée) is from Bergson. Memory is not stored in the brain by| Victoria Trumbull on IAI TV might have been the real tipping point. I’m not sure how far I’ll develop this, but I wanted to capture my thoughts so I can refocus on my other topics, Parfit and Frege–Geach, to name two.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
NB: I feel compelled to walk the NotebookLM podcasters back onto the reservation with their ending flurry. I would never posit that humans (or beings) will ever have direct access to The Universe™. All access, per MEOW, is necessarily limited by mediational encounter.
Duration – in a sense that will require distinguishing from Bergson’s – is ontologically prior. It is not the absence of structure but structure prior to segmentation, ordering, and metric discretisation. Time – segmented into intervals, directionally ordered, and metrically structured – is what results when intervalic form is imposed upon duration. The imposition is representational rather than discovered: we do not encounter intervals in duration any more than we encounter grid-lines in a landscape. It is not imposed from outside experience but enacted from within it, through the structuring operations by which finite subjects render duration intelligible as time, and this includes succession itself. The ‘before-and-after’ of temporal experience is not inherited from duration but is itself a product of the intervalic cut – the minimal structure required for the grid to function as a grid. Without this stronger claim, the imposition would merely metricise an already ordered flow. Duration would then retain an intrinsic direction independent of the grid. The present thesis denies this: prior to the imposition, duration has no intrinsic ordering of the sort the grid later makes available. This does not make time unreal; it makes it derivative. What follows is an articulation of the temporal distinctions that become available once the imposition is in place.
Once the intervalic cut is made, experience within its frame exhibits an asymmetric structure. The present, the past, the future, history, and futurity are not features of duration itself but modes of access that become intelligible only within the imposed temporal grid. They may be stated compactly:
Present – actuality at the dimensionless limit of the intervalic cut.
Past – prior actuality, no longer extant, now only reconstructible from retention, trace, and surviving fragment.
Future – possible actuality, not yet extant, available only through projection, expectation, and extrapolation from present constraints.
History – lossy interpolation from fragmentary surviving traces of prior actuality.
Futurity – lossy extrapolation from present constraints, tendencies, and uncertainties.
Because the grid resolves duration only partially and from a situated cut, both reconstruction and projection are necessarily lossy: the former inherits only traces of what has been structured, the latter extends only tendencies available from where the cut presently stands.
NotebookLM Infographic on this topic.
What ordinary experience calls the present is not, however, the dimensionless limit itself. It is a heuristic tolerance-band, a phenomenal spread across the cut that permits experience to function as though it inhabits a moment with extension. The strict present, as a product of the intervalic imposition, is an abstraction: a point that formal structure requires but that experience cannot occupy without borrowing width from duration. It is here, at the tolerance-band, that the imposition fails to fully displace what it organises. The failure is not accidental. Any representational scheme that discretises a continuous prior will underdetermine what it carves – there will always be a residue that the grid cannot fully resolve. The tolerance-band is where that residue is phenomenally evident.
The asymmetry between past and future is real, but it is real within the grammar of access generated by the intervalic imposition rather than as a primitive feature of duration itself. The past is reconstructed from what has obtained; the future is projected from what may obtain. A natural objection arises: if duration is truly without intrinsic direction, why is this asymmetry so stubbornly one-way? Why can we not reconstruct forwards or project backwards in any equivalent sense? The answer is that the imposition is not directionless even though what it is imposed upon is. The intervalic cut does not merely segment – it orders, and the ordering it introduces is irreversible because the cut is made from within experience, by subjects who retain traces of what the grid has already structured but have no corresponding access to what it has not yet reached. The arrow belongs to the act of imposition, not to duration itself.
A corollary follows for physics. Bidirectional temporal coordinates are artefacts of the intervalic grid, not discoveries about the deep structure of what the grid represents. That the equations of motion are time-symmetric means only that the formalism remains invariant under temporal reversal operations. It does not mean that duration is reversible, still less that time could ‘go backwards.’ The reversibility belongs to the representational instrument, the coordinate structure and its algebraic properties, not to what is being represented. To conclude otherwise is to read the map’s indifference to orientation as evidence that the terrain has none. Philosophical positions that take this inference at face value, the block-universe interpretation being the most familiar, inherit the error rather than originate it. The error itself is simpler and more general: the conflation of formal symmetry with ontological symmetry.
Situating the Argument
The foregoing account operates on terrain that others have worked before, and it owes debts that should be made explicit – not least so that the points of departure are equally clear.
The most obvious creditor is Bergson. The ontological priority of duration, the critique of spatialised time, and the insistence that metric structure is imposed rather than discovered are all recognisably Bergsonian commitments. The departure is equally plain. Bergson characterises duration positively as qualitative becoming, heterogeneous flow, interpenetrating states – a rich inner life that spatialisation distorts. The present account is more austere. It claims that duration is structure prior to segmentation and ordering, but it does not claim to know what that structure is like from the inside. Bergson thinks he can describe what the imposition conceals; the present thesis maintains that description is itself a structuring operation and therefore cannot reach behind the imposition it enacts. Duration here is an ontological commitment, not an experiential report.
Husserl‘s phenomenology of internal time-consciousness provides much of the apparatus for the epistemic layer. Retention and protention, the specious present, the constitutive role of temporal synthesis in experience – these are Husserlian structures, and the tolerance-band is in obvious dialogue with his account of the living present. The departure is that Husserl treats these structures as disclosing the temporal character of consciousness itself, whereas the present account treats them as artefacts of the intervalic imposition. For Husserl, retention is how consciousness holds the just-past; here, retention is a mode of access that the grid makes available. The difference matters because it determines whether the phenomenology is foundational or derivative. On the present account, it is derivative – downstream of the imposition, not prior to it.
The Kantian resonance is structural rather than doctrinal. The claim that the imposition is enacted from within experience by finite subjects, and that temporal order is a condition of intelligibility rather than a feature of things in themselves, places this account in the neighbourhood of the transcendental aesthetic. But Kant‘s time is a form of inner sense – a pure intuition that structures all experience a priori. The present thesis does not commit to this. It says the imposition is enacted by subjects but does not say it is a priori in Kant’s sense, nor that it is a form of intuition rather than (for instance) a contingent cognitive achievement or an evolved heuristic. The source of the imposition is left deliberately underdetermined at this stage, since settling it prematurely would foreclose possibilities the argument has not yet earned the right to exclude.
Finally, the critique of physics ontologising its own coordinate structure has affinities with van Fraassen‘s constructive empiricism – the insistence that empirical adequacy does not entail structural correspondence between formalism and reality. The affinity is genuine but limited. Van Fraassen is concerned with the epistemology of scientific theories in general; the present argument is concerned with one specific inferential error – the slide from formal symmetry to ontological symmetry – and it grounds that error in a prior thesis about the representational character of intervalic time that van Fraassen does not share. The diagnostic is narrower and the ontological commitment is stronger.
What the present account shares with all four predecessors is the conviction that the ordinary temporal framework – past, present, future, measured and directional – is not simply given. Where it departs from all four is in its specific diagnosis of what the framework is: a representational imposition. It structures a priori, it cannot fully displace, and is enacted from within experience by subjects whose epistemic situation is constitutively shaped by the imposition itself.
Or, to put it in one line fit for people skimming with one eye while pretending to work:
Goodman asks how versions make worlds intelligible. MEOW asks what kind of reality makes mediated intelligibility possible at all.
NotebookLM Infographic on this topic.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
Tl;dr
Goodman and MEOW are neighbours, but not housemates.
Both reject the childish fantasy that the world arrives already parcelled, labelled, and politely awaiting description by some neutral observer. Both are suspicious of naïve realism, fixed essences, and the conceit that language simply mirrors what is there. Both recognise that description, classification, and articulation are active, selective, and world-shaping.
But Goodman’s emphasis falls on versions, symbol systems, and the making of worlds through classificatory practice. MEOW and The Architecture of Encounter go elsewhere. They do not treat symbolic versioning as primary. They treat encounter as primary: mediated, structured interaction under constraint. Language and world-versioning come later, as derivative, partial, and often clumsy attempts to stabilise, synchronise, and re-present what is first given in encounter.
So the shortest contrast is this:
Goodman pluralises worlds. MEOW pluralises mediation while retaining constraint.
That is the hinge.
The longer version
Goodman is often useful precisely because he helps loosen the grip of a bad picture: the notion that there is one fully furnished world, discretely laid out in advance, which language then copies with greater or lesser success. In Ways of Worldmaking, description is not passive transcription. Versions organise, sort, foreground, suppress, classify, and compose. They do not simply mirror. They make.
This much sits quite comfortably beside MEOW and The Architecture of Encounter. MEOW has never been sympathetic to the old theatre in which a subject peers out at a ready-made object-world and then tries to report back accurately. That picture has always seemed less like sober metaphysics and more like a grammatical superstition. It is one of those inherited arrangements that philosophy keeps polishing rather than questioning, as if centuries of confusion were somehow evidence of depth.
On that score, Goodman is an ally. He helps dissolve the myth of innocent description.
He also overlaps with MEOW in his suspicion of essentialist carving. There is no reason to suppose reality presents itself in one uniquely natural partition, fully jointed in the exact way our preferred nouns imply. Goodman’s attention to alternative versions, symbolic orderings, and rival systems of classification fits comfortably with the broader MEOW suspicion that what we call “objects” are not self-announcing substances but stabilised articulations within a mediated field. In The Architecture of Encounter, this becomes still sharper: subjects and objects are not ontological primitives but abstractions from recurring encounter-structures. That already places the framework some distance from ordinary metaphysical furniture.
So far, then, the affinity is genuine.
But it is just as important not to overstate it.
Goodman’s centre of gravity is symbolic and versional. His concern is with how worlds are made through systems of description, notation, projection, ordering, and exemplification. The operative verbs are things like sort, render, compose, construct. The world is inseparable from the version.
MEOW and The Architecture of Encounter are doing something heavier. They are not merely offering a theory of how descriptions organise a world. They are offering an ontology in which encounter-events are primary. The basic unit is not an interpreted object, nor a version, nor a sentence, but a structured event of mediated contact under constraint. Mediation is not a regrettable screen placed between mind and world. It is constitutive of whatever relation there is. But neither is mediation free invention. Encounter is answerable to what resists, pushes back, stabilises, recurs, and converges. That is the role of constraint.
This is where the deepest divergence emerges.
Goodman is often read, not unfairly, as weakening the notion of a single underlying world more radically than MEOW can tolerate. His pluralism risks allowing “worldmaking” to carry most of the ontological burden. The result can begin to sound as though right versions are all the realism one is entitled to. There are worlds, or world-versions, and their legitimacy depends less on correspondence to a singular underlying reality than on fit, function, coherence, utility, and internal rightness.
MEOW resists that move. It does not return to vulgar realism, with its fantasy of a view from nowhere, but it also refuses to let mediation collapse into fabrication. Constraint is not a decorative afterthought. It is the realist anchor. One may have multiple mediations, multiple articulations, multiple ontological grammars, multiple local stabilisations, but these are not unconstrained improvisations. They are answerable to an invariant field of relational resistance.
Put more brutally: Goodman destabilises the ready-made world and then tends to leave us with versions. MEOW destabilises the ready-made world and then asks what must be true for divergent mediations nonetheless to converge, however partially, on the same resistant reality.
That difference matters.
It matters again when language enters the picture. Goodman grants an enormous role to symbol systems in worldmaking. MEOW, especially once read through The Architecture of Encounter and A Language Insufficiency Hypothesis, treats language more suspiciously. Language matters, certainly, but it is late, compressed, and lossy. It is not the primordial engine of world-constitution. It is a finite synchronisation technology layered atop more basic forms of mediation: biological, perceptual, attentional, cognitive, social. Language helps coordinate. It helps compress. It helps stabilise public handling. But it also distorts, truncates, nominalises, and overcommits.
That is where LIH adds a useful corrective to Goodman. If Goodman sometimes sounds like a connoisseur of world-versioning, LIH reminds us that our versioning machinery is often embarrassingly underpowered for the tasks philosophers assign to it. Human beings keep trying to force syntax to carry ontological burdens it was never built to bear. We take grammatical distinctions for metaphysical disclosures. We inherit noun-heavy structures and then wonder why the world starts looking like a warehouse of things. We reify processes, discretise continua, and carve durational realities into portable lexical chunks. Then, having manufactured these pseudo-stabilities, we congratulate ourselves for discovering “selves”, “minds”, “meanings”, “moral facts”, and other linguistic taxidermy.
Goodman certainly helps expose the active role of symbolic systems. But LIH presses further by insisting that symbolic systems are not merely worldmaking tools. They are also bottlenecks. They fail. They coarsen. They generate ontological illusions through the very act of public coordination.
That is why I would not place Goodman and MEOW in opposition, but in a relation of partial inheritance and correction.
Goodman is valuable because he helps dismantle the myth of passive representation. He is right to resist the idea that language or symbolisation merely records a pre-cut world. He is right to foreground selection, ordering, categorisation, and articulation. He is right to reject the transparent-window fantasy.
But from a MEOW standpoint, he does not go far enough into encounter, and perhaps goes too far into version.
What is missing is a richer account of pre-linguistic mediation, presentational structure, salience, affordance, and the layered constraints under which any symbolic practice becomes possible in the first place. Symbol systems do not float free. They do not arise in a void. They are parasitic upon lived, embodied, constrained encounter. Nor is their plurality enough, by itself, to explain why some articulations fail, why some converge, why some distort in systematic ways, or why reality resists our preferred descriptions with such vulgar persistence.
That last point is worth dwelling on, because it is where many anti-realist gestures lose their nerve. The fact that access is mediated does not imply that reality is manufactured. The fact that articulation is active does not imply that resistance is optional. The fact that classifications vary does not imply that there is nothing to be classified beyond the classificatory act.
So the bottom line remains the same.
Goodman is useful for breaking the spell of the one already-made world and for showing that symbolisation is not passive mirroring. But MEOW and The Architecture of Encounter push in a different direction. They relocate the primary philosophical action from symbol systems to encounter-events, from worldmaking to world-disclosure under mediation, and from plural worlds to plural access under constraint. A Language Insufficiency Hypothesis then sharpens the point by showing that language is not an omnipotent engine of constitution but a compression scheme with predictable failure modes.
Philosophics 