At The Heart Of The Maelstrom

Zénon! Cruel Zénon! Zénon of Êlée!
Did you pierce me with that winged arrow
That vibrates, flies, and yet does not fly!

The Marine Cemetery, Paul Valéry

In the beginning, there was the pulse. Then, much later, the waters, violent.

Let’s agree, for the last time in the history of ideas, that reality is like a plain (i.e.: seamless). Now, let’s add, right at the end, in foreshortening, shores, in all their lightness and, even further, don’t picture it yet!, cloudy, the ocean. Alright, that’s enough. The waters will embody the digital.

Attentive reader, you hit the nail on the head.
I came to ask you to embrace the old verb.
Beyond the shores of delirium, the only firm thing is to Navigate.

The British of the 21st century dictates: Maelstrom is a great whirlpool found off the southern coasts of the Norwegian archipelago of the Lofoten Islands, in the province of Nordland. More precisely, it is located between the islands of Sorland and Væroy of that archipelago, at the latitude of 67°48′05′′N 12°47′49′′E. It is formed by the conjunction of the strong currents that traverse the strait between the islands and the great power of the tides.

Seen this way, the Maelstrom doesn’t warm anyone. Another oceanographic phenomenon in all its vastness. A lovely marvel, old dangers. Kircher takes us a bit further: he claims that at the center of the Maelstrom lies an abyss that penetrates the earth and opens into another point of the sea.

Poe, on the other hand, takes us through its jaws. The thing is simple: a group of fishermen (it could be us) listen to the story of an old man, his gaze fixed on the sea. We chose swift waters purely by calculation, the old man confides. There, where there are whirlpools, he assures, a man catches what fifteen would in an afternoon. Putting life at risk, productivity above all. Courage responding to the needs of capital.

Naturally, the old man says, one bright day the capricious waters change their intent: the Maelstrom. Everything is swept away in the blink of an eye, the horizon arches (it’s the waters) and the little sailboat gets trapped in the realm of confusion and speed.

I won’t give details, because the narration could sharpen any
Turner painting. Poe, above all, was the best storyteller. Spare yourself the displeasure of reading me. What matters lies in the end: one crew member escapes the Maelstrom unscathed. He is the one who embraces death and, light as a feather, decides to let go. To stop fighting. A fishing boat rescues him, they are the friends of the unfathomable brotherhood!, no one recognizes him. He tells his story, no one believes him. He has turned gray; he, who this morning was still young. An hour in the Maelstrom equals thirty years of life.

DSM-5.
Any addict hears the verse and twists it in advance. Any family member does too. There are no possible strategies. The contraindication is useless (it cannot serve in the realm of the inverse). Every dosage preannounces the invitation. An expiatory holocaust, every sanction.

Let’s discard, then, all the manuals compiled by the embassy of mental health. Three are the friends I lost along the way. Three, too, the nails and one constant: when you inhabit hell, arm yourself with terror and move forward lightly.

Let’s return to the beginning.

We said that the real is pure plain. We talked about shores. We also said that the
waters would serve us to embody the digital.

Now, indeed: picture, as best you can, an ocean. Don’t think of perversions. We are
fishermen on a calm day, ready to sail.

The boat on the shore doesn’t sense directions. Only fishing invites us to take a north. Here the gentle waters of the estuary and their austere procession. There the swift waters and their returns, laden with trout and other gifts for the net. Even further away, against the cliffs, the canyengue, the whirlpools, pure profit!

Do you get the point yet?

For pure fun, let’s match the fish with the information. Some are poisonous, made of thorns. Others, tempting, invite man to sink his teeth right into their backs.

At each change of rhythm, let’s assign an incentive, no matter what.

In calm water zones, patience for the last rites.

In areas of higher activity, the gains are greater.

In whirlpool zones, ultimately, a spectacle of life and death dedicated to leaving us dry with the first and last pull.

Fortunately for us, not every whirlpool is a Maestrolm. It's just a matter of time. Soon enough, a fool will come along and invent it. Twitter foreshadows this, having ignored TikTok.

On the art of incentive: it doesn't matter who stirs the waters, generating greater traction. It's impossible to study the causes. The effects, on the other hand, are clear. If the speed of the waters exceeds our navigation skills, we are at the mercy of the currents. There's nothing to be done until it calms down. One can, however, pray.

That's why: let's heed the calls of the old fisherman. Let's embody our words, celebrate our kind. We are fishermen, limping, navigators, and the question is crucial, on the shore, when vice (weak flesh) pushes us toward the embarkation: can one navigate in this weather? Can one, at the very least, navigate?