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in the absence of expected disaster, we are
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left again to: each other—each other’s eyes

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What is Hive Being, and Why the Name?

You have likely heard talk of a hive mind, where one global mind finds more or less figurative expression in various local minds. Such talk is common enough in nature documentaries, especially ones concerning ants or bees, and in sci-fi programs. Take that notion, at least a loose version of it, and broaden its scope. That will be a decent first step in understanding the title I have chosen both for my Blog and for the first five-volume installment of my magnum opus Made For You and Me, a fragmentary collection of minimalist stanzas from 2016 to 2020.

In alignment with Spinoza (the 17th Century Rationalist to whom I devoted my doctoral studies), I view reality in its totality as a grand hive Being: all entities are but pulsating manifestations of the buckstopping fount of everything, an ultimate being we might call “God” or “Nature” (so long as, out of respect for the capital “G” and the capital “N,” we limit it neither to some anthropomorphic cloud father hurling lightning bolts nor to mere wilderness untouched by human smog). According to the hive-Being view (where reality is one lone superorganism, a monistic—and we might even say unividualist—conception I defend in both my creative and academic capacities), each non-foundational being (each being, that is, whose essence does not involve existence) is an utterly necessitated expression or eruption or exudation of this eternal source—each is, perhaps better put, a mode or manner of being, and so a focal point through which is disclosed, what classical theists sometimes call “being itself” (ipsum esse subsistens): the realness of the real, the being of whatever may be, the sheer activity of being, the very isness of whatever is. This Blog, which duplicates my Substack, throbs as but one among many literary unfurlings of this self-necessitated foundation, this supreme wellspring, of which we—like black holes and broken beliefs, like fractal ferns and flickering flames—are the inevitable stylings.

My Journey

I am an academic who found himself pressured into early retirement by the rising tides of cancel culture. The illiberal scourge of censoring, silencing, and shaming—although always with us throughout our evolution—reached a local peak around 2021. That was the turbulent year my creative pursuits, which the old left once encouraged as a healthy outlet for the stresses of a childhood steeped in poverty and illiteracy, drew the ire of the new safe-space left. A small cadre of self-proclaimed victims and their allies, several of whom continue to berate me years later under pseudonyms as see through as their sexual infatuation, sought to erase me and my heterodoxy. They found support from a wannabe-woke dean, covered in the grand inquisitor robes of our decadent modernity (full-body tattoos) and just itching to signal his commitment to protecting “vulnerable populations” from triggering material (even if just, as it was in my case, off-duty poems “unbecoming for someone calling himself a teacher”). Although I eventually won my due-process case with the help of The Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression, I slunk away from a college that turned its back on protecting freedom of expression and from an institution increasingly intolerant of intellectual diversity.  

The wrecking ball to my too-comfy office in the windowless ivory tower came with a silver lining. From the ashes of my professional aspirations rose a phoenix of increased freedom to fulfill the literary calling I have pursued for decades. Reputation concerns never stopped me, even within academia’s sterile halls of conformity. Indeed, my unapologetic defiance, which has long baffled friends and family, no doubt chummed even safe waters—almost as if I were asking for it all along—until the cancel shiver grew too frenzied to hold back its blind thrashings. But now, now I piston the most forbidden territories of human thought with no longer even a twinge of conscience. The newfound freedom means extra time to hone my craft. When not assisting special-needs communities (a day job far more rewarding than freeway-flyer drudgeries), I pursue my literary mission with Dionysian fervor.

Call for Co-Conspirators

This space, my digital sanctuary, showcases the fruits of my mission. Think of my posts, even those linking to my publications, as works in progress. I want your input, unflinching brutality included. Each post begins with an invitation to action: “Let’s workshop this [draft about x, y, z].” Your contributions, whether through public comments or my contact page, help hammer scraps of ore into polished blades fit for magazine publication.

Your input is valuable, even if you are neither a writer nor a reader of literature—twin disciplines dying by the cyber nanosecond. Sometimes—even if at the risk of uttering banalities—an outsider’s fresh vantage can pierce the veils of convention to reveal what insiders miss. It often takes an outsider to make us even think to question our ingrained presuppositions and attitudes. I stand by the hygienic value of contagion. That is one reason I advocate so strongly for intellectual diversity and freedom of expression. And that is also one reason I was so harrowed by the anti-diversity swell of cancel culture in academia (an institution that should be the utmost caretaker of such values)—harrowed especially insofar as that swell masqueraded under the gaslighting guise of “diversity”).

You will witness the breathing evolution of my writings over time. To track these changes, I label each revision by round: “ROUND 2,” ROUND 3,” and so forth. Each piece undergoes continuous refinement based on your feedback and my own revisitations. Sometimes changes will mar the work. That is the risk of creative tinkering as a finite creature. I hope you will alert me to missteps. After many semesters of university writing workshops, one rule has impressed itself upon me: when someone senses a flaw, something almost always needs to change—even if, yes, the proposed solution misses the mark (which often it does). From a quick look into the archives, accessible here, you can see how much I have benefited from your feedback so far.

My Hope

Sharing drafts can be daunting. But showing you the ravaged and unperfumed real deal unfiltered by makeup (stuttering starts and falsities, awkward line breaks and clumsy word choices, grammatical errors and misspellings)—that not only makes my work more relatable, but helps me refine things through your input. I hope the unfiltered look at the raw process of fumbling, rather than just the polished product, also helps other writers develop their craft. Imperfect works often instruct more than perfect ones: whereas the perfect ones tend to have a grace by which they slip inside us without activating our scrutiny, the imperfect ones—especially the near perfect ones—show us glaringly what not to do.

People laugh at me, seeing—in my tilting at the windmills of literary excellence—a Don Quixote clunking around in Arthurian armor in a post-knight era. I am not naïve. I am well aware of the diminishing ability to read, let alone well: slowly and deeply, with gratitude. I am also aware that my style, which often nests subpoints within larger points, never waters down virtuosity for the sake of mass appeal. I watch readers stumble over my sentences, unable to unlock even just the music of the envelope let alone the semantic meat within, which—given my tendency to flashlight through the darker facets of human nature (the addicts, the miscreants, the abusers among us)—only adds an additional alienating layer of difficulty). Beholding these depressive scenes of even supportive family members getting bucked off my syntactic bronco makes me feel like a dinosaur who should get a hint and, if not succumb to the brain rot of skibidi-toilet speak, just hang himself already. Even though the decline in linguistic background and grammatical voltage makes my compositions seem quixotic in a world binging Netflix and TikTok, I persist—raging against the dying of the light—by some internal compulsion to celebrate the richness of language and thought.

My hope is that, despite social media’s unparalleled power to farm our attention, people never forget the unique power of writing. Beyond unveiling hypocrisy, teasing out complex implications, and detailing the commonalities between even the most alien phenomena, writing offers something we need today—trapped in agoraphobic cyber bubbles only thickened by the Lyme dangers of forests and the COVID dangers of cities—perhaps more than ever. Granting us rich access to the first-person perspectives of others (to how things feel to them), writing serves as one of humanity’s best tools for combating loneliness. It allows us to linger, broadly and deeply and at high resolution, within the inner lives of others in a way that other arts can only suggest.

What to Expect

My work spans a broad spectrum: from metaphysical discourses on free will and determinism and the ontology of holes to the ephemera of western culture (whether the childhood impacts of the hypersexual mono-image of black woman as squirting twerkers or Terrence Howard’s sham revolution of mathematics). Some tight and minimal, others free-flowing sprawls; some heady and abstract, others emotional and imagistic—my inkwell musings, which often blend scholarly rigor with a dark humor from both high and low culture, aim to capture the visceral intensity of our personal and social and ultimately existential predicaments.

By no means can I deny that drug abuse, sexual assault, and the tales of the broken and the damned loom large in the tag cloud of my work. My writing will never be a paradise of easy truths and comforting lies. It will challenge you, provoke you, and at times even repulse you. I offer no apologies for the monsters I unleash. They are as much a part of us, at long root scared rodent mammals scurrying in the shadows of dinosaurs, as our noblest aspirations.

But make no mistake. It is not all downer darkness. The archives are my receipts. You will find pieces exploring the pursuit of authenticity in a media-saturated world, the search for meaning in an indifferent cosmos, and the celebration of beauty in both the sublime and the profane. I locate much of my inspiration, in fact, in novelists like Dostoevsky and poets like Ted Kooser—writers unafraid to pursue moral agendas or risk Hallmark sentimentality in an age that often sneers at sincerity.

Be they satirical dissections of modern social dynamics or poignant poems about addiction or academic articles on moral responsibility, my goal is to provoke thought, evoke emotion, and foster meaningful dialogue. Fear has not and will not stop me from challenging humanity’s fundamental taboos (like bestiality and cannibalism) or self-reflecting into the dark chaos of the subconscious, even if that means exposing the Jungian shadows—the inner Goebbels—lurking within us all!

Expect posts each day, no day missed. Donations are welcome, but I impose no paywall: it feels wrong to charge for art, especially given our date with obliteration. Feel free to explore what amounts to, at the time of writing this, close to a thousand pieces of poetry and prose here. That should give you a sense of what awaits.

Join me—specula holstered—on this literary odyssey into the public and private nooks of the hive Being. Let us navigate the labyrinth of creation together, confronting our demons and even slaying our darlings if we must. Let us dance on the razor’s edge between the sublime and the profane in pursuit of an elusive literary perfection never to be confused—as it has been confused in our declining civilization—with the pursuit of popularity or likeability over truth.

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My Struggles with the Family Fungus
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

My Struggles with the Family Fungus

"My Struggles with the Family Fungus" is a deeply personal and graphic narrative that explores the multigenerational transmission of trauma and pathology through the lens of a hereditary fungal infection. The piece unfolds as a memoir-style recounting of the author's childhood experiences with his grandfather's toenail fungus, a condition that symbolizes the pervading sense of decay and dysfunction within his family. The narrative is infused with vivid imagery and dark humor, presenting the fungus as a metaphor for the destructive cycles of poverty, neglect, and substance abuse that afflict the family. The author's descriptive language paints a picture of a life marred by hardship and deprivation, where unsanitary living conditions and a lack of proper hygiene are normalized. The narrative spans several years, detailing the author's own gradual succumbing to the family fungus, a process that parallels his increasing psychological distress and alienation.

As the narrative progresses, the fungus becomes a focal point for the author's obsessive-compulsive behaviors, driven by fear and shame. The condition represents not only a physical ailment but also a manifestation of his internalized trauma and anxieties. His extreme attempts to eradicate the fungus—ranging from home remedies to self-mutilation—highlight his desperate need for control in an environment where he feels powerless. These efforts, however, only exacerbate his condition and contribute to his sense of isolation and mental unraveling. The story also touches on themes of toxic masculinity and familial violence, as the author reflects on the impact of his father and grandfather's behaviors, which oscillate between negligence and aggression.

The narrative is not just a literal recounting of events but also a metaphorical exploration of inherited trauma and the often cyclical nature of family dysfunction. The author's internal monologue reveals a deep-seated fear of becoming like his predecessors, and his actions are driven by a desire to break free from the destructive patterns he has inherited. Yet, his repeated failures and escalating behaviors suggest a profound entrapment within these cycles, mirroring the tenacity of the fungal infection itself. The story culminates in an act of self-harm, which serves as a cathartic but ultimately futile attempt to purge himself of the physical and metaphorical infection that has plagued him for so long.

Darkly humorous narrative that explores the author's battle with a hereditary fungal infection as a metaphor for generational trauma and family dysfunction. The story delves into themes of inherited pathology, psychological distress, and the desperate quest for control. Generational trauma, family dysfunction, psychological distress, hereditary illness, obsessive-compulsive behavior, self-harm, toxic masculinity, poverty, neglect, substance abuse, childhood trauma, dark humor, memoir-style narrative.

Let's workshop this piece about the entanglement of familial history and inherited trauma, seen through the lens of an insidious toenail fungus that threads its way through generations. The narrative begins with a vivid, visceral account of the narrator's childhood, where Grandpa bribed them with obsolete arcade tokens to "play undertaker" to his grotesque, fungus-riddled toenails. This grotesque ritual, taking place in a home marred by poverty and neglect, is depicted in almost absurd detail: brittle, crumbling toenails, and the stale, yeasty smell that lingered on their fingers like a curse. The narrator's fear of the fungus takes root in these early years, cultivated by a dramatic intervention from Grandma, who drags them outside to scrub their hands with kerosene in a kind of frenzied, infernal baptism. This moment plants a seed of fear that lies dormant but never vanishes, much like the fungus itself.

As the story unfolds, we see the narrator grow up amidst familial chaos—divorce battles that are more like literal brawls, a stint in a foster home that feels more like a prison sentence, and a mother who falls into the arms of a man living in a pay-by-the-week motel room. The fungus serves as both a literal and metaphorical thread that ties these traumatic experiences together, representing not just a physical ailment but a deeper, inherited malaise. The narrator's father, a deeply troubled man living out of a car and appearing suddenly on a school bus with bare, fungus-infested feet, becomes a figure of simultaneous shame and sympathy. This incident reignites the narrator's fear of the fungus, which becomes an obsessive, almost superstitious fixation.

The narrative is punctuated by grotesque humor and dark, absurd moments—such as the narrator's father's drunken antics, or the bizarre encounters with figures like Paul, the drinking buddy with a 'trumpet lip' perfectly suited for chugging cans. Yet, beneath this dark humor lies a deep vein of trauma and unresolved psychological pain. The narrator’s struggle with the family fungus, a grotesque symbol of inherited dysfunction, leads to increasingly desperate measures. We witness the narrator's spiral into a full-blown obsession, culminating in self-mutilation as they attempt to rid themselves of the affliction once and for all. The narrative crescendos into a scene of horrifying clarity as the narrator, in a frenzy of rage and despair, chops off an infected toe with rusty loppers—a desperate act of self-purification that only deepens their sense of isolation and alienation.

Throughout, the fungus operates as a metaphor for generational trauma—an unwanted inheritance that spreads silently and inexorably, manifesting in both physical and psychological scars. The narrative explores themes of poverty, family dysfunction, and the struggle for personal agency amidst a backdrop of inherited suffering. It raises questions about identity, resilience, and the lengths one might go to in an attempt to sever ties with a past that seems doomed to repeat itself. The ending, a bleak but defiant note of ambiguity, leaves us pondering the ultimate cost of such a struggle—both in terms of what is lost and what, if anything, might be gained.

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Contrapuntal Daddy
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Contrapuntal Daddy

"Contrapuntal Daddy" is a complex exploration of the interwoven themes of erotic desire, moral consciousness, and paternal instincts, structured within the context of DDLG (Daddy Dom/Little Girl) dynamics, a concept often associated with power exchange in sexual relationships. The poem employs a contrapuntal structure, where contrasting emotional currents—carnal desire and paternal protectiveness—are placed in tension with one another, akin to the interdependent yet independent melodies in a musical fugue.

The poem opens with the speaker's admission of a powerful erotic attraction toward a high school jazz starlet, signified by the phrase "DDLG desire," which immediately situates the reader within the controversial terrain of age-disparate desire and power dynamics. The metaphor "inseminating octaves" not only emphasizes the intensity of the speaker's lust but also evokes a musical imagery that aligns with the starlet's identity as a jazz musician. This dual reference to both physical and artistic creation complicates the speaker’s emotions, suggesting that his desire is both creative and destructive.

However, this rising desire is abruptly interrupted by an "inner light," a moment of self-realization or perhaps divine intervention, which halts the speaker’s violent fantasy of strangulation—a symbolic act that could be interpreted as an extreme manifestation of control or dominance inherent in DDLG dynamics. The phrase "astral prayers" to her father, which the speaker paradoxically addresses to himself as a father, introduces a layer of introspection and moral complexity. This moment of reflection suggests a rupture in the speaker’s identity: he is simultaneously the desiring subject and the protective father figure, creating a profound internal conflict.

The invocation of "telepathy" and "astral prayers" indicates a metaphysical dimension to the speaker’s turmoil, where he seeks to reconcile his base desires with his higher moral duties. The repetition of "Protect that little girl" serves as both a command and a plea, blurring the lines between the speaker's own paternal instincts and his recognition of the girl's vulnerability. This repetition underscores the speaker's struggle to align his actions with his moral compass, highlighting the dissonance between his role as a father and his inappropriate desires.

The poem’s brevity and its fragmented structure reflect the disjointed nature of the speaker’s thoughts, as he oscillates between his conflicting roles. The use of the term "contrapuntal" in the title is particularly significant, as it draws from a musical term that describes the technique of composing with two or more independent melodies that harmonize when played together. This not only underscores the duality of the speaker’s internal conflict but also suggests that these opposing desires—erotic and protective—are inextricably linked, forming a complex and unresolved emotional and ethical harmony.

"Contrapuntal Daddy" is a nuanced exploration of desire, power, and the complexities of the father-daughter relationship. Through its contrapuntal structure, the poem reveals the speaker's internal conflict between his desires and his conscience. The themes of protection and self-preservation are central to the poem, suggesting that the speaker's desires may be rooted in a longing for childhood innocence. By examining the implications of the speaker's internal conflict, the poem offers a thought-provoking exploration of human nature and the complexities of desire.

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Milk
Michael Anthony Istvan Junior Michael Anthony Istvan Junior

Milk

This poem, "Milk," explores the contentious and often contradictory terrain of reproductive rights, legal responsibilities, and societal ethics. By juxtaposing the legal permissibility of abortion with the absence of a corresponding right for men to opt out of child support, the poem highlights the gendered asymmetries in how society allocates reproductive responsibility. The rhetorical question posed at the poem's climax—why men cannot opt out of child support—invites a critical examination of the ways in which legal systems enforce paternal obligations, even as they grant women significant autonomy over reproductive decisions.

The reference to Innuits leaving "surplus mouths on ice drifts" serves to underscore the cultural relativity of moral norms. This allusion reminds the reader that ethical frameworks around life and death, far from being universally fixed, are deeply influenced by historical, environmental, and cultural factors. By evoking a practice that is morally anathema in many contemporary societies, the poem compels us to confront the often uncomfortable reality that our own moral judgments are similarly contingent and context-dependent.

The poem also makes a stark comparison between the legal rights afforded to a fetus and the everyday cruelty inflicted on animals, specifically cows. This contrast not only points to societal hypocrisies but also raises questions about the selective nature of empathy and moral concern. The fetus, which "feels no pain," is legally protected to a degree that the poem suggests is disproportionate when compared to the routine suffering of sentient beings in industrial agriculture. This comparison challenges the reader to consider the inconsistencies in societal attitudes toward life and suffering, questioning why certain lives are deemed worthy of protection while others are systematically exploited.

In its brevity, "Milk" distills complex legal, ethical, and philosophical debates into a series of sharp juxtapositions, provoking reflection on the intersections of gender, power, and morality. The poem does not offer easy answers but instead urges the reader to grapple with the paradoxes and inequalities that characterize contemporary discussions of reproductive rights and responsibilities.

reproductive rights, legal responsibilities, gender asymmetry, cultural relativism, societal ethics, moral inconsistency, autonomy, paternal obligations, animal rights, contemporary poetry.

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Don’t let anyone tell you that real life is lacking in poetic interest. This is exactly what the poet is for: he has the mind and the imagination to find something of interest in everyday things. Real life supplies the motifs, the points that need to be said—the actual heart of the matter; but it is the poet’s job to fashion it all into a beautiful, animated whole. You are familiar with Fürnstein, the so-called “nature poet”? He has written a poem about growing hops, and you couldn’t imagine anything nicer. I have now asked him to write some poems celebrating the work of skilled artisans, in particular weavers, and I am quite sure he will succeed; he has lived among such people from an early age, he knows the subject inside out, and will be in full command of his material. That is the advantage of small works: you need only choose subjects that you know and have at your command. With a longer poetic work, however, this is not possible. There is no way around it: all the different threads that tie the whole thing together, and are woven into the design, have to be shown in accurate detail. Young people only have a one-sided view of things, whereas a longer work requires a multiplicity of viewpoints—and that’s where they come unstuck.—Goethe (Conversations with Eckermann)


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in how many dreams might you
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