Glass Bones Going to Print

“The photograph preserves presence by recording its disappearance.” — Quinn Jacobson, Glass Bones (influenced by John Berger and Roland Barthes)

I’ll be doing the final edits on the manuscript this week. I’ve now gone through the book several times, including all 26 chapters, the introductions, conclusions, notes, and preface. Honestly, it’s hard to describe the amount of work this has been. Some days I wonder what exactly I committed myself to, and then something clicks into place, a paragraph opens up, an image suddenly belongs where it should, and I feel inspired all over again.

I want to thank the people who have acted as readers throughout this process and worked through the chapters with me each week. Your feedback, criticism, encouragement, and patience have mattered more than I can say. This book is better because of you.

I don’t know the exact date the manuscript will go to the printer yet, but my goal is to have a proof copy in my hands by the end of the month, possibly sooner. I’ll make signed hardcover copies available to anyone interested for the cost of printing and shipping, and there will also be a paperback version on Amazon at cost.

I’ve decided to hold off on the ebook version for now. I may eventually release one, but at this point I feel like this book is meant to exist as a physical object. With the amount of artwork, texture, and visual material woven through it, it simply feels better in your hands than on a screen.

“The photograph preserves presence by recording its disappearance.”

— Quinn Jacobson, Glass Bones (influenced by John Berger and Roland Barthes)

I’ve said this before, but it’s worth repeating: this project has never been about commerce or making money. It’s about sharing ideas, artwork, and questions that I think matter. It’s about trying to better understand what drives us as human beings, especially in the shadow of mortality.

I’ll begin work on RUPTURE next week and officially start building that book in June. It will be a completely unique kind of project. Glass Bones is heavily theoretical and philosophical. RUPTURE will foreground the artwork itself: the images, the darkroom, the studio, the materials, the failures, the residue, and the physical process of making. The theory will still be there, but mostly in the background.

What I’m increasingly interested in is whether the work itself can function as epistemological evidence. Not illustration of an idea after the fact, but evidence generated through creative practice itself (arts-based research methodology). The photographs, paintings, plates, chemicals, traces, and repetitions are becoming central to what I’m calling Rupture Field Theory (RFT).

Dr. Dan Liechty will be serving as faculty for this next stage of the journey, which feels both exciting and somewhat surreal to me given how foundational Becker’s work has been to my thinking for so many years.

Wounded Plates

There’s a point in a long practice where the material starts talking back, not metaphorically, but structurally. It resists you in ways that feel less like failure and more like disclosure. That’s roughly where this document lands for me. Not as a proposal in the conventional academic sense, but as a recognition that the work has already been doing something I’m only now beginning to articulate.

What I’m circling here, perhaps a bit cautiously, is a shift away from the idea that art functions primarily as a buffer against death anxiety. That Beckerian frame still holds enormous explanatory power. It’s difficult to ignore how much of culture operates as a defense structure, a symbolic architecture designed to stabilize us against the knowledge of our own finitude. But in the studio, something else happens. Or at least, something else can happen. The work doesn’t always console. It doesn’t necessarily sublimate or elevate. Sometimes it does the opposite. It stays with the wound.

The “wounded plate” emerges out of that recognition. Not as a stylistic choice, and not even as an aesthetic category in the usual sense, but as a condition. A plate that has been pushed, mishandled, or chemically distressed—brought to a point where resolution becomes difficult, maybe even impossible. There’s a temptation to read that as imperfection or to rehabilitate it through familiar tropes of beauty-in-flaw. I’m not convinced that’s what’s happening. It feels closer to an enactment than a representation. The plate doesn’t show damage. It undergoes it.

That distinction is important. Representation allows distance. Enactment collapses it.

If I’m honest, this complicates some of the assumptions I’ve been working with for years. The idea that creativity functions as an “immortality project” has been a useful frame, especially within Terror Management Theory. But it may be too narrow, or at least incomplete. There are practices—this might be one of them—where the aim isn’t symbolic endurance or transcendence. The aim, if that’s even the right word, is closer to sustained contact. A kind of practiced proximity to the conditions we usually spend our lives managing or avoiding.

That’s where the process starts to take precedence over interpretation. I’m less interested in what the image means and more interested in what was done. The cuts, the chemistry, the sequence of actions that led to this particular surface. It’s not that meaning disappears. It just arrives later, and perhaps more tentatively. The plate seems to know something before I do. Or at least it holds something that resists immediate translation.

This is where the gap opens up. Between what the plate knows and what theory can say about it. I’m not inclined to resolve that gap too quickly. If anything, it may be the most important part of the inquiry. Theory tends to stabilize. It names, organizes, situates. That’s useful, even necessary. But the plate doesn’t stabilize. It deteriorates, reacts, breaks down. It behaves more like a body than an image.

And that brings me back to the central tension in the document. What happens when the process itself becomes the argument? When the work is no longer illustrating an idea but generating it? I’m not entirely sure yet. There’s a risk in stepping back, in letting the process lead without immediately framing it. It can feel like giving up control, or worse, like abandoning rigor.

But there’s another possibility. That rigor might look different here. Less like explanation, more like attention. Less like resolution, more like staying with what doesn’t resolve.

The wounded plate doesn’t redeem anything. It doesn’t offer closure. If anything, it intensifies the condition it emerges from. And yet, there’s a kind of honesty in that. A refusal to convert mortality into something more palatable.

I suspect that’s what I’m really after. Not a new aesthetic, and not even a new theory, but a different relationship to what the work is doing. One that doesn’t rush to translate the experience into meaning but allows the experience to remain active, even unsettled.

The plate is not a picture of something dying. It is a small, controlled instance of dying. Repeated. Observed. Held.

And maybe that’s where the knowledge is. Not in what we say about it afterward, but in the fact that we stayed with it long enough to let it happen.

The Creative Mind & Mortality Podcast - S1E12: The Collapse of Meaning and the Search for Repair

The Collapse of Meaning and the Work of Repair

There are moments when the structures that once held your life together begin to loosen.

Not dramatically, at least not at first. It’s subtler than that. A thinning. A slight misalignment between the story you’ve been living inside and the experience of actually living it. Things still function, externally. But internally, something has shifted. The coherence isn’t what it was.

And what’s unsettling is that this doesn’t necessarily feel like something has gone wrong. It can feel closer to something becoming visible.

This is where the conversation around meaning often becomes too simplified. We tend to talk about meaning as something we either have or lack, as though it were a stable property of a life well-constructed. But if Becker is right—and I think he largely is—then what we call meaning is better understood as a kind of psychological structure. It stabilizes us. It gives orientation. It situates our actions within a larger frame that feels continuous and enduring.

But that structure is never fixed.

It holds until it doesn’t.

Becker’s broader claim, particularly in The Denial of Death, is that these structures exist in part to buffer us from the full psychological impact of mortality awareness. They allow us to function without being constantly overwhelmed by the knowledge that our lives are finite and, at least from a cosmic perspective, fragile. Culture, identity, even our most personal commitments—these are not neutral. They are stabilizing systems.

Which means they are also vulnerable.

When they begin to fail, what returns is not just confusion. It is exposure.

What emerges first is often disorientation. A difficulty locating yourself within the frame you once inhabited without effort. But underneath that is something more fundamental: the re-emergence of mortality anxiety. Not always as panic or fear, but as a persistent pressure. A background awareness that has moved forward.

It’s important to be precise here. What collapses in these moments is not simply happiness or motivation. It’s coherence. The sense that your life fits into something that extends beyond you. The sense that your actions carry weight within a larger continuity.

When that disappears, the problem is not reducible to mood. It’s structural.

This is where Becker’s idea of the “hero system” becomes particularly useful. A functioning worldview allows you to experience yourself as someone who matters within a world that persists. It provides a sense of symbolic durability. When that system weakens, the individual is not just left feeling bad. They are left without a stable position from which to experience themselves as meaningful.

That distinction is important.

It also helps explain why existential collapse is so often misread. It is easy to collapse it into the language of depression, but the two are not identical. Depression can drain energy, flatten affect, and reduce engagement. Existential collapse removes something else entirely, the justification for engagement.

You can still act. You can still function. But the underlying reason for doing so becomes unclear.

At the far edge of this, something more difficult can emerge. Not necessarily a desire to die, but an inability to continue within the absence of structure. Awareness becomes too direct. Too constant. What had been buffered becomes immediate.

Otto Rank’s contribution is useful here. For Rank, anxiety itself is not the problem. It is the condition of being human. The problem arises when anxiety cannot be transformed, when it has nowhere to go. In the absence of a functioning symbolic structure, it does not convert into work, relationship, or form. It accumulates.

From Becker’s perspective, this is a collapse of heroism. The individual no longer experiences themselves as capable of generating meaning that holds.

So what happens next?

In most cases, one of two responses emerges.

The first is an intensification of defense. People double down on existing structures. They move toward rigidity, certainty, or ideological reinforcement. The aim is not necessarily truth, but stability. The structure must hold, even if it becomes narrower.

The second is a drift toward nihilism. If no structure feels believable, the system can collapse inward. Motivation erodes. Engagement withdraws. The absence of meaning becomes the dominant frame.

Neither response resolves the underlying condition. They manage it.

But there is a third possibility, though it is less immediate and far less comfortable.

It begins, not with clarity, but with grief.

Ross and Rachel Menzies make an important observation here in Mortals. They frame grief not simply as a reaction to loss but as one of the earliest forms of meaning-making available to us. When the symbolic world fractures, grief is the process through which it begins, tentatively, to reorganize.

This is not resolution. It is a form of metabolization.

Ritual plays a role here as well. Not because it solves the problem of death, but because it provides a container within which meaning can begin to reassemble. Importantly, this is rarely an individual process. Meaning, at this level, is reconstructed relationally.

This is also where I find a direct connection to creative practice.

Some of the most important work I’ve made has not felt like expression in any conventional sense. It has felt closer to mourning. A slow, often resistant attempt to give form to something that does not yet have one. The work does not explain the rupture. It holds it.

That distinction seems increasingly important.

If we extend the philosophical frame further, this position sits in a kind of tension with Schopenhauer and Camus. For Schopenhauer, suffering is not a disruption of life but a fundamental condition of it. From that perspective, collapse is not an accident. It is what happens when illusion thins.

Camus, working from a different angle, identifies the problem as the gap between our need for meaning and the world’s refusal to provide it. The absurd emerges from that mismatch. His response—what he calls revolt—is not a solution but a stance. A decision to continue participating without resolving the contradiction.

That position, I think, comes very close to what Becker identifies in the artist.

The artist does not escape the condition. They remain exposed to it. What differs is the capacity, or perhaps the compulsion, to work with what is there rather than around it. To take in fragmentation, impermanence, contradiction—and to give it form.

Not to resolve it.

To hold it.

Peter Wessel Zapffe pushes this even further. His argument, that human consciousness may have overshot its evolutionary function, reframes the problem entirely. The issue is not simply collapse. It is that we are capable of seeing too much without having the structure to sustain it. His metaphor of the Irish elk—an organism whose evolutionary development became its liability—remains difficult to dismiss.

Awareness, in this sense, is both the source of meaning and the condition of its instability.

Which brings us back to the central question.

If collapse is not incidental, but structural, what do we do with it?

Becker’s answer is restrained but significant. A minority of individuals do something different. They do not fully retreat into defense, and they do not entirely collapse into despair.

They create.

Not as distraction or denial. It’s a way of metabolizing what they are encountering.

This is where the idea of repair becomes useful.

Repair is not a return to a previous state. It is a reconstruction that acknowledges the fragility of its own foundation. It does not attempt to eliminate uncertainty. It builds with it.

That process is slow. It is often unclear. And it rarely feels like progress in any conventional sense.

But something does shift.

In the studio, this shift can be almost imperceptible. Watching an image emerge in the darkroom, there is a moment where something that was not visible begins to take form. It does not solve the underlying tension. But it changes your relationship to it. You move, however slightly, from being inside the pressure to witnessing it.

That movement matters.

It is, I think, what allows the process to continue.

There’s a line from Mike Doughty that I’ve been holding onto: How can I do it? I can’t not.

It doesn’t read as resolve. It reads as necessity.

And that may be the most honest position available.

Creation, in this sense, is not always a choice grounded in clarity or purpose. It is often what remains when the alternative—complete withdrawal—becomes untenable.

The collapse of meaning is not a failure of the individual.

It is a condition of being aware.

The question is not whether it happens.

The question is whether we can remain with it long enough to build something that does not require us to look away.

Repair begins there.

And for some of us, it continues in the work.

"Yan Yana" (Side by Side) Exhibition

I was surprised to find two prints of mine in this show in Istanbul, Turkey. I know Kerim, the owner of the gallery, he owns both of the prints, but he never informed me about the exhibition.

Experimental Work

There’s a moment in the darkroom when an image stops behaving like a document and starts behaving like a memory. Not a record of something that happened, but something closer to the feeling of having been there without being able to say exactly when or how or even if it was real. That’s where this print seems to live.

This Red Yucca began as a whole-plate wet collodion negative, already a material that carries its own temporal weight. Collodion doesn’t just record light; it slows it down. It asks for patience, for proximity, for a kind of attentiveness that feels increasingly out of step with the speed of contemporary image-making. But what happened here wasn’t about preservation. It was about disturbance.

In the cyanotype, I let the image come in, and then I partially took it away.

Washing sections of the print back out introduced a kind of instability into the surface. Areas that should have held firm dissolved into something closer to residue. The hydrogen peroxide, used to deepen the blues, didn’t simply “enhance” the shadows in a technical sense. It pushed the image toward a more pronounced polarity, presence and absence sitting closer together, almost uncomfortably so. What remains feels less like a fixed object and more like something that has survived a process of erosion.

And that’s where the feeling of déjà vu enters.

Not as nostalgia. Not as sentimentality. But as a kind of cognitive dislocation. The image feels familiar, but not locatable. It suggests that it belongs to a past but refuses to specify which one. The plant itself—red yucca, rooted in the desert, resilient, persistent—becomes secondary to the condition of its appearance. It’s no longer just botanical. It’s been pulled into a different register, where form begins to carry the weight of time.

There’s something important here about memory.

Memory, at least as we tend to experience it, isn’t archival. It doesn’t preserve things cleanly. It degrades, edits, overlays, and distorts. It holds onto fragments and lets other parts go without explanation. In that sense, this print feels more accurate to the structure of memory than a sharply rendered, fully intact image ever could. The losses aren’t flaws. They’re constitutive.

I find myself thinking about how much of our visual culture is oriented toward clarity, toward resolution, toward the elimination of ambiguity. High definition, perfect tonal range, immaculate surfaces. But lived experience doesn’t operate that way. The things that stay with us most persistently are often the least resolved. They hover. They repeat. They resist closure.

This print leans into that resistance.

It doesn’t present the yucca as an object to be known. It offers it as something half-recalled, half-erased, suspended between emergence and disappearance. The edges bleed. The ground feels unstable. The image seems to be both arriving and leaving at the same time.

In a way, it’s less about the plant than about the conditions under which anything comes to be seen, remembered, or lost.

And that feels close to the larger thread I keep returning to in the work: what happens when an image is allowed to carry not just form but also the pressure of time, decay, or partial disappearance? What kind of meaning becomes possible when we stop trying to stabilize the image and instead let it remain in that fragile, shifting state?

I don’t think this is about making something “beautiful” in any conventional sense. It’s about making something that feels true to the way experience actually moves through us—uneven, incomplete, and, at times, quietly haunting.

This one lingers. What do you think?

The Creative Mind & Mortality Podcast S1: Glass Bones E11: The Rupture Field Theory

Rupture Field Theory: Before I Had the Language - Introducing Episode 11

There are moments in life that don’t make sense when they happen.

They don’t arrive as ideas. They don’t announce themselves as important. They pass quietly, almost unnoticed, but something in them stays. Not exactly as memory, but as pressure. An imprint that doesn’t resolve.

Episode 11 of The Creative Mind & Mortality Podcast begins in that space.

I go back to two experiences that stayed with me long before I had the language to understand them. One from childhood, walking through a low-income apartment complex on Madison Avenue in Ogden, Utah. Years later, standing at the Sand Creek Massacre site in Colorado.

At the time, they felt unrelated. But over time, a pattern started to emerge.

That pattern is what I now call Rupture Field Theory (RFT).

Rupture, as I’m using it, isn’t always dramatic. More often, it’s subtle. Something doesn’t fit. Something exceeds your ability to make sense of it. And instead of resolving, it remains active beneath the surface.

This episode is an attempt to articulate that structure—not as abstract theory, but as something lived and worked through in the studio. A movement from rupture into form, from contact into expression, without rushing too quickly toward closure.

Most of the time, we stabilize as fast as we can. We translate experience into meaning and move on. But creative practice offers another possibility: to hold the instability long enough for something new to emerge.

That’s the ground this episode is built on.

Three dead sunflowers at Sand Creek, Colorado.

PORTRAITS FROM MADISON AVENUE
GHOST DANCE: NATIVE AMERICAN MASSACRE SITES

The Creative Mind & Mortality Podcast – S1 E10: The Fragile Architecture of Meaning

There’s a moment, usually quiet, sometimes abrupt, when the systems we rely on to make sense of our lives begin to show strain. Not collapse exactly. Instead, it manifests as a subtle instability. A recognition that what once felt solid might be more provisional than we assumed.

This episode opens with Work Song by Hozier, a track that, on first listen, reads as devotion. But listen more closely, and something else comes through. The song doesn’t locate meaning in permanence. It locates it in relation—in presence, in connection, in being-with. That shift matters. It suggests that meaning might not be something we secure once and for all but something we participate in, moment by moment.

From there, the episode moves into Chapter 7 of Glass Bones, where the focus turns toward a more difficult realization: the structures that hold our sense of meaning together are not fixed. They are constructed, maintained, and—under pressure—fragile.

Drawing on Ernest Becker, this fragility begins to make sense. Becker argued that culture functions as a buffer against the anxiety of mortality. We build systems—religion, identity, achievement, and legacy—not simply to organize life, but to protect ourselves from the destabilizing awareness that it ends. Culture, in this sense, is not neutral. It is defensive. It allows us to move through the world without being overwhelmed by what Becker calls the “terror” of death.

But once that function becomes visible, the stability of those systems starts to look different. What we often take as enduring truths begin to reveal themselves as negotiated constructions—what Becker at times calls “necessary illusions,” not in a dismissive sense, but as conditions for psychological survival.

This is where Terror Management Theory extends Becker’s insight. Research consistently shows that when mortality becomes salient, people tend to defend their worldviews more aggressively. Beliefs harden. Boundaries sharpen. What might otherwise be approached with curiosity becomes something to protect. Work by Ross Menzies and Rachel Menzies traces this into everyday life, where even subtle reminders of death can amplify anxiety and trigger defensive responses—prejudice, polarization, or withdrawal.

Seen this way, conflict begins to look less like a failure of reasoning and more like a function of existential pressure. When meaning structures are threatened, the response is often not to revise them but to reinforce them.

At the same time, modern culture has developed increasingly sophisticated ways of avoiding death altogether. Distraction becomes ambient. Consumerism offers endless substitution. Even the pursuit of longevity begins to take on a symbolic dimension, as if extending life could also resolve the deeper problem of finitude. What emerges is not just denial, but an architecture—one designed to keep mortality at a manageable distance.

Yet fragility does not only produce defensiveness. It also produces pressure.

And under pressure, something else can begin to form.

If the systems we rely on are not as stable as they appear, the question shifts. It is no longer simply how we defend meaning but how we relate to it when it destabilizes. This is where the episode turns toward a different possibility. Not abandoning meaning, but loosening our grip on the idea that it must be fixed, guaranteed, or permanent.

There is a line of thought—present in existential philosophy and implicit in Becker—that suggests meaning may not be something we secure against death but something that emerges in proximity to it. Not despite fragility, but through it.

This is not a comfortable position. It asks for a different kind of orientation. One that does not rely entirely on stable systems but is willing to remain in relation—to others, to the work, to the moment—even when the larger structure feels uncertain.

The architecture may be fragile. But that fragility is not only a liability. It may also be the condition that makes meaning possible at all.

Keywords
creative mind and mortality
Glass Bones podcast
Chapter 7 fragile architecture of meaning
death anxiety
Ernest Becker
terror management theory
Ross Menzies Rachel Menzies
mortality awareness
worldview defense
existential psychology
culture and death denial
meaning making and mortality
conflict and belief systems
existential philosophy podcast
artists and mortality
symbolic immortality
modern death denial
consumerism and death anxiety
psychology of belief
Hozier Work Song meaning

My Book: The Final Stages of Glass Bones

I wanted to share a few pages from Glass Bones—a glimpse into how the book is beginning to take shape as a physical object.

I’m still working. Still in the darkroom, still at the canvas, still refining the manuscript. Every day. But it’s close now. Close enough that I can begin to think less about what it is becoming and more about where it might live once it leaves my hands.

Right now, I’m planning a small hardback run (5.5” x 8.5”)—somewhere in the range of 250 to 300 copies. Not because I expect a large audience, but because I’m more interested in placement than scale. This isn’t a commercial project. It moves in the opposite direction.

What I keep returning to is the idea of libraries, especially at art schools. It’s a niche path, but that’s always been where this work lives.

There’s something compelling about the possibility that this book could sit quietly on a shelf, embedded within a larger system of knowledge, waiting for the right kind of encounter. Not driven by visibility or promotion, but by proximity. Someone searches for a keyword—mortality, art, psychology, violence, or meaning—and this object appears. They take it down. Spend time with it. Or don’t. But the encounter remains possible.

In that sense, distribution becomes part of the work.

If Becker is even partially right that culture functions as a buffer against the anxiety of death, then placing a book like this into public collections may operate as a small countercurrent. Not as a corrective, exactly, but as an opening. A space where the usual defenses are not reinforced but perhaps loosened.

Because this project doesn’t offer resolution.

Much of the work moves through sites of rupture—historical, psychological, and cultural. The violence enacted against the Tabeguache Ute, for example, is not framed as an aberration of cruelty but as something emerging from a deeper structure. A culture unable to face its own mortality displaces that terror outward, producing an “other” to carry what it cannot hold itself.

The images that follow don’t attempt to resolve that. They witness it.

They sit in the places where meaning breaks down and remain there long enough for something else to surface—something less stable, but perhaps more honest.

There will be a digital version. An audiobook as well. Both extend access, which matters. But they inevitably flatten part of the experience. The scale of the images, the pacing, the way text and image occupy the same field—those things don’t translate cleanly.

This has always been a hybrid project. Part book, part object. Something meant to be read but also handled. Something that lives not just in circulation but in place.

More soon.

Table of contents.

How each chapter begins: a quote and an image somewhere within the chapter or at the end.

At the end of the book, I cover my work over the past 30+ years.

Terror Management Theory: The Mechanics Beneath Belief

Episode 9 — The Creative Mind & Mortality Series

There’s a moment in God Shuffled His Feet by Crash Test Dummies that lingers longer than it should.

It’s not dramatic. Nothing collapses. No revelation arrives. People sit in the shade with God, drinking wine, asking questions about death. What happens to the body? What carries forward? What remains? The questions are direct, almost childlike in their clarity.

And then something subtle shifts.

God answers with a story that doesn’t resolve. A boy with blue hair. It has the structure of a parable, but none of the closure. The meaning doesn’t land. It doesn’t return the listener to coherence. The people hesitate. They try to interpret. Someone finally asks what everyone is thinking: was that a parable or a joke?

God doesn’t answer.

He shuffles his feet.

What the song captures, almost inadvertently, is a moment of instability. Not the collapse of meaning, but a failure of resolution. The structure that is supposed to organize reality is still present, but it doesn’t quite hold. It hesitates.

That hesitation becomes a useful entry point into Terror Management Theory.

If Ernest Becker identified the central problem—the human awareness of death and the need to buffer it through culture—TMT attempts to observe what happens when that buffer is disturbed. It moves from philosophical diagnosis to experimental inquiry, asking whether mortality awareness can be measured in behavior.

The answer, across decades of research, appears to be yes.

TMT introduced the concept of mortality salience: the moment when death enters awareness, whether consciously or not. What is striking is how little it takes. A brief prompt asking someone to reflect on their own death. A passing image. A symbolic cue. The trigger can be minimal, almost incidental.

And yet, the effects are consistent.

When mortality is made salient, people do not typically report fear. There is no overt sense of panic. Instead, what emerges is a tightening. Worldviews become more rigid. Beliefs feel more certain. Cultural symbols take on increased emotional weight. Individuals show stronger preference for those who share their values and more hostility toward those who do not.

These are not random reactions. They follow a pattern.

Worldview defense intensifies. In-group loyalty strengthens. Out-group rejection increases. Self-esteem becomes more urgently pursued. What appears on the surface as conviction or moral clarity may, at least in part, be functioning as a buffer against existential threat (Solomon et al., 2015).

In this sense, culture operates less as a passive inheritance and more as an active defense system. It provides symbolic continuity, a way to feel that one’s life participates in something enduring. Becker described this as a “symbolic hero system,” a structure that allows individuals to experience significance in the face of finitude.

TMT shows how reactive that system can become when it is pressured.

What the laboratory captures, however, is primarily what happens after the disturbance. The worldview tightens. The armor is reinforced. The system re-stabilizes.

What the song offers is something slightly different.

It lingers in the moment before that re-stabilization fully takes hold.

The people in the song do not immediately defend. They hesitate. They attempt to interpret. They search for footing. The question—parable or joke—functions as an effort to restore structure, to reclassify ambiguity into something manageable. But for a brief moment, that effort does not succeed.

They remain in the gap.

This is a psychologically narrow space. One that is typically short-lived. The TMT literature would suggest that the system does not remain open for long. The need for coherence is too strong. The pressure of mortality too persistent.

And yet, that moment of hesitation may be worth examining more closely.

If worldview defense is a reflexive response to mortality awareness, then the question becomes whether it is possible to encounter that awareness without immediately reinforcing the structures that contain it. Not to eliminate defense, which is likely neither possible nor desirable, but to notice its activation. To recognize the moment when belief tightens, when identity hardens, when meaning is being secured rather than explored.

This is where the conversation begins to move beyond TMT.

The theory is precise in its observations, but it is limited in scope. It can demonstrate that mortality awareness shapes behavior. It can map the patterns of defense. But it does not fully address what it means to live with that awareness in a sustained way. It does not ask whether there are modes of engagement that are not primarily defensive.

That question opens into creative practice.

Art, at least in its more honest forms, does not always resolve tension. It does not necessarily restore coherence. It can hold ambiguity longer than most psychological systems are comfortable with. It can remain in that space where meaning has not yet stabilized, where the answer does not arrive cleanly.

In that sense, the hesitation in the song is not merely a failure of explanation. It is a condition.

A threshold.

The place where the worldview does not fully protect but has not yet been reinforced. The place where mortality is present, but not entirely covered over.

TMT helps us understand why that space is difficult to inhabit.

The question that follows is whether it is also where something generative begins.

To Buffer or Not to Buffer?

Why Not Just Buffer?

Buffering is the psychological and cultural process that regulates our awareness of death, embedding it within beliefs, identities, and meanings that make it tolerable enough to live and function. Most of us do this constantly, automatically, and without knowing it. The question worth sitting with is not whether buffering happens, but what it costs, and whether there is anything worth preserving on the other side of it.

Why not simply buffer and numb out to the reality of mortality? If it keeps us functional, stable, even relatively content, why not leave it in place?

One answer is pragmatic: in many cases, we probably do need some degree of numbing. Becker, Zapffe, and the Terror Management theorists who followed them are fairly clear on this. Zapffe, the Norwegian philosopher whose work predates and in some ways anticipates Becker's, argued that human consciousness is biologically overbuilt for survival. In "The Last Messiah" (1933), he wrote that we are the only creatures who can foresee our own deaths, and that this foresight is not a gift but a burden we spend most of our lives managing through what he called anchoring: attaching ourselves to fixed values, identities, and purposes that hold the abyss at a manageable distance. A fully unfiltered awareness of mortality is not something most people can sustain without consequence. The real question, then, is not whether buffering exists, but how much of it we rely on, and at what cost.

The argument for remaining conscious, at least intermittently, has less to do with moral superiority and more to do with what becomes available when the buffer loosens. When mortality is not fully suppressed, certain patterns become visible: the contingency of one's worldview, the constructed nature of identity, the fragility of meaning. That recognition can be destabilizing, but it can also open a different kind of responsiveness.

From one angle, this is about accuracy. You see more of what is actually structuring your experience rather than mistaking the structure for reality itself. That doesn't dissolve the structure, but it introduces a degree of reflexivity. You are not only inside it; you are also aware of being inside it.

From another angle, it shifts the register of creative work. If anxiety is only buffered, it tends to get displaced into symbolic systems that reinforce the existing worldview. If it is metabolized, even partially, it can move through the work differently, less as defense and more as material. That is where the distinction between buffering and processing becomes meaningful. It is not that one eliminates anxiety while the other doesn't. It is that one reorganizes how anxiety circulates. Rank made a related observation in Art and Artist (1932), arguing that the creative act is never simply a resolution of anxiety but a repeated negotiation with it, one that can either fortify the existing character structure or, in rarer cases, begin to transform it.

There is also an ethical dimension, and it is sharper than it might first appear. In Escape from Evil (1975), Becker argues that the same defensive structures which protect the individual from death anxiety can, under pressure, harden into aggression toward those who embody a different answer to the problem of mortality. We don't buffer privately alone; we buffer collectively, and we tend to protect those buffers by marginalizing or harming whoever threatens them. Greater consciousness doesn't automatically dissolve this dynamic, but it does make it harder to participate in unconsciously. You begin to see the mechanism, and seeing it introduces at least the possibility of refusal.

At the same time, there is no guarantee of relief or clarity. In some cases, increased awareness simply intensifies the tension. That is why many traditions, philosophical and religious alike, have treated this not as something to be exposed but contained. The Stoics practiced memento mori as a disciplined, bounded form of mortality awareness, not an invitation to sustained exposure (Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, c. 161–180 CE). The point was regulation, not immersion.

What Does a Fully Unbuffered Life Actually Suffer?

If you take the idea seriously, "fully unbuffered" is not just more awareness. It is a qualitative shift in how experience is organized.

At the psychological level, the first consequence is overwhelm, not in a vague sense but something closer to what Becker describes in The Denial of Death (1973) as the terror that symbolic systems exist to manage. Without the usual filters, mortality is no longer abstract or deferred. It becomes immediate, pervasive, and difficult to bracket. The ordinary scaffolding that keeps experience coherent begins to loosen, and what follows can register as acute anxiety or panic.

Cognitively, meaning itself begins to destabilize. If cultural narratives, identities, and purposes are seen through completely, they may lose their binding force, not because they are simply false but because their constructed nature is no longer hidden. The risk is not just doubt. It is a kind of flattening, where distinctions between what matters and what doesn't become harder to sustain. That can slide toward nihilism or toward a collapse of motivational structure. Yalom describes something like this in Existential Psychotherapy (1980), noting that confrontations with mortality, when uncontained, can produce not liberation but a disorienting loss of the ordinary purposes that structure daily life.

Functionally, this matters. Action depends on a certain degree of selective blindness. You go to work, make plans, take risks, invest in relationships, all under conditions where death is backgrounded. If it moves fully into the foreground, it can interrupt those processes. Why build, strive, or commit if the endpoint is not just known but constantly present? Some people might still act, but the basis for action shifts, and often weakens.

There is also a social cost. Shared worldviews are not only individual defenses; they are collective agreements, what TMT researchers Greenberg, Pyszczynski, and Solomon (1986) describe as culturally constructed realities that function precisely because their members treat them as given rather than chosen. When one person steps too far outside them, communication strains. You begin to see the rules of the game while others are still playing it as if it were simply the world. That produces a particular kind of isolation, not dramatic, not always chosen, but persistent.

At the extreme, what full unbuffering describes starts to resemble states that clinical psychology would classify as pathological: severe anxiety disorders, depersonalization, certain forms of existential depression. That does not mean the perception is wrong. But it does suggest that the human system is not built to sustain that level of exposure continuously.

Which is why the metaphor of a dimmer switch is more useful than an on/off toggle. It implies regulation rather than elimination, a system that allows glimpses, moments where the structure thins and something more fundamental shows through, before reconstituting itself so that life can continue. The question is not how to remove the buffer entirely. It is how to move along that spectrum without collapsing; how to see more, at intervals, and still remain capable of living, acting, and making. That is the territory this work tries to stay inside, not because it is comfortable, but because it is honest, and because something that might be called clarity, or at least a less mediated relationship to being alive, waits on the other side of looking.

References
Aurelius, M. (2002). Meditations (G. Hays, Trans.). Modern Library. (Original work written c. 161–180 CE)

Becker, E. (1973). The denial of death. Free Press.

Becker, E. (1975). Escape from evil. Free Press.

Greenberg, J., Pyszczynski, T., & Solomon, S. (1986). The causes and consequences of a need for self-esteem: A terror management theory. In R. F. Baumeister (Ed.), Public self and private self (pp. 189–212). Springer.

Rank, O. (1932). Art and artist: Creative urge and personality development (C. F. Atkinson, Trans.). Alfred A. Knopf.

Yalom, I. D. (1980). Existential psychotherapy. Basic Books.

Zapffe, P. W. (1933). The last messiah (G. R. Tangenes, Trans.). Philosophy Now, 45, 21–24. (Original work published 1933)