Reality

 

To be introspective here for a moment, it seems we have no being, no "self." Just sit quietly and "watch" your thoughts (be mindful). You can see that all it is is a process of one thought after another, loosely connected, sometimes branching and going in circles, sometimes starting off on a new track, sometimes influenced by an uprising emotion or memory or an external stimulus. Something simlar is happening in a spiral galaxy. To be sure the galaxy rotates, but this does not create the spiral waves. They are condensation waves where dust and gas are compressed enough to create bright new stars, the biggest and brightest of which are born and die right there, hardly moving, while the dimmer ones move on and the apparent arm persists. There is a difference between things that are processes (where each event occurs in sequence and pushes itself along) and material of even spiritual objects, that have tangible stasis and properties. A wave is like our mind, it generally pushes itself along but still is influenced by the lay of the land, by the wind, by passing objects, by interaction with other waves, and so on. The water that is the medium of the wave moves in little circles as the wave passes, but is not the wave.

You’re circling a very old—and very deep—intuition, and you’re expressing it rather cleanly.

If you sit and watch the mind, as you describe, it does not present itself as a solid “thing.” It behaves much more like a stream or a pattern: thoughts arising, linking, dissolving, looping back, getting nudged by memory, sensation, mood. The sense of a continuous “I” feels, under inspection, less like an object and more like a narrative thread that keeps being re-stitched in real time.

That observation lines up closely with what in Buddhism is called anattā—the claim that there is no permanent, independent self behind the flow. And interestingly, a rather different tradition, David Hume’s empiricism, lands in a similar place: when he looked inward, he reported finding only “a bundle of perceptions,” never a stable self that owned them.

Your galaxy analogy is a good one, and not just poetically.

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A spiral arm is not a fixed object moving through space like a rigid spoke. It’s a pattern sustained by conditions—density waves, gravitational effects, gas dynamics. The bright stars give the illusion of something persistent and structured, but the constituents are constantly changing. The “arm” is real, but it is real as a process, not as a thing.

That distinction you draw—between processes and substances—is doing a lot of work here.

A chair is (roughly speaking) treated as a substance: it has continuity, identifiable boundaries, and persists through small changes. A wave, by contrast, has identity without fixed material. You can point to it, measure it, even predict it, but you cannot bottle “the wave” apart from the water. Its reality is organizational, not material.

Your suggestion is that the mind—and perhaps the self—is wave-like in exactly that sense.

There are a couple of tensions worth keeping in view, though:

One is practical. Even if the self is a process, it is a highly stable and self-reinforcing one. Memory, bodily continuity, habits, and social recognition all conspire to keep that “wave” coherent over time. So while there may be no fixed core, there is still a very robust pattern that behaves, for most purposes, like a persisting person. That’s why responsibility, identity, and continuity don’t simply evaporate under analysis.

The other is phenomenological. Even when one sees the stream-like nature of thought, the sense of “being the observer” often lingers. Some traditions would say that too is just another construction—another subtle ripple in the stream. Others argue there is a minimal self: not a thing, but a point of view inherent in experience.

Your metaphor of water moving in little circles while the wave passes is especially apt. It suggests that what we call “self” might be a kind of standing pattern in the flow—real enough to interact, to persist for a while, to have consequences—but not something with independent substance.

If I nudge your thought a bit: perhaps the interesting question isn’t “is there a self?” but “what kind of thing is this pattern we keep calling a self?” A galaxy arm, a wave, a flame—these are all real, but their reality lies in continuity of form, not continuity of stuff.

And that raises a quiet follow-up: when that pattern changes significantly—through age, illness, or even deliberate practice—at what point do we say it’s no longer “the same” self? Or do we simply keep naming the pattern as one thing out of habit?

Waves are self-sustaining just as a chair in your response is self-sustaining. There is no real difference except scale.

I see what you’re getting at—and there’s a real insight in it—but I’d push back a bit on the “no real difference except scale” part.

A chair and a wave can both be described as self-maintaining patterns, yes. The chair persists because its internal structure (molecular bonds, rigidity) resists change. A wave persists because a set of conditions keeps re-creating its form moment by moment. In that broad sense, both are “held together” by processes rather than by some metaphysical glue.

But the kind of persistence they have is different in a way that isn’t just about size.

A chair is what we might call materially continuous. If you leave the room and come back, it’s made of (mostly) the same atoms in (roughly) the same arrangement. Its identity is tied to that continuity of stuff. Break it apart, and the chair is gone.

A wave, on the other hand, is formally continuous. Its identity doesn’t depend on any particular bit of water. The water can be entirely different from one moment to the next, and yet we still say it’s “the same wave” because the pattern persists. Interrupt the conditions—no wind, no medium—and the wave vanishes instantly.

That’s not just a difference in scale; it’s a difference in what carries the identity. Matter in one case, organization in the other.

Now here’s where your intuition becomes interesting again: if you press hard enough, even the chair starts to look more like the wave. Its atoms are constantly exchanging energy, vibrating, even being replaced over time. At a deep enough level, it too is a stabilized process.

So you can flatten the distinction and say: everything is process.

But if you do that, you lose a useful contrast. Some processes are self-contained and slow-changing (like the chair), and some are entirely dependent on ongoing flow (like the wave). The mind—and your earlier analogy—seems much closer to the second category.

Your original point about thoughts fits neatly here. A thought isn’t like a chair that sits there once formed; it’s more like a wave crest that only exists while the underlying activity sustains it. And the “self” might be less like the furniture in the room and more like a long-lived pattern in the weather—coherent, trackable, even nameable, but never made of the same “stuff” twice.

So I’d say you’re right in spirit—both are sustained—but the distinction between what is being sustained (stuff vs pattern) still matters if we’re trying to understand what kind of thing the self might be.

There seems a huge difference, but in reality they are both maintained by processes. In a wave we see the motion of the particles more clearly when we look closely, and the forces seem less rigid.

Yes—that’s a very perceptive refinement, and I think you’ve put your finger on why the difference feels so large even if, at a deeper level, it may not be.

What you’re noticing is partly a matter of visibility and timescale.

With a wave, the underlying activity is right on the surface. You can see the water moving, the rise and fall, the constant replacement. The process advertises itself. It practically says: “I am not a thing; I am happening.”

With a chair, the process is hidden by stability. The atoms are vibrating, bonds are holding and flexing, microscopic changes are occurring—but all of that is so slow, so constrained, that it presents itself to us as stillness. It says: “I am a thing; I simply am.”

So the distinction we feel—rigid vs fluid, object vs process—is, to a large extent, a product of our scale of observation and the speed of change.

If we could “zoom in” far enough, the chair would start to look less like a solid object and more like a tightly choreographed storm of interactions. And if we could somehow “slow down” a wave and freeze it in the right way, it might start to look like a structured object.

So I think your claim can be sharpened like this:

The difference between a chair and a wave is not that one is a process and the other is not, but that one is a process whose internal motion is perceptible and loosely constrained, while the other is a process whose motion is largely hidden and tightly constrained.

And that brings you right back to the mind.

When you observe thoughts, you’re doing something like watching the “wave version” of yourself—the motion is visible, the transitions are obvious, the lack of a fixed core becomes hard to ignore. But in daily life, the mind presents more like the “chair version”—stable, continuous, dependable enough that we treat it as a thing, a self.

There’s a quiet implication in what you’re saying that I find interesting: the sense of a solid self may be less a discovery and more a perceptual convenience, arising because the underlying processes are usually too stable or too fast for us to notice their fluidity.

If that’s right, then introspection isn’t revealing something exotic—it’s just shifting the “resolution” at which you’re observing the same system.

And that raises a slightly uncomfortable question: if the solidity of things (including the self) depends so much on how we look, how much of what we take to be “real” is actually a function of the scale and manner of our observation?

I take both to be real. The wind blows the branches, that movement is as real as are the wind and the branches.

That’s a very grounded place to land, and I think you’re on solid footing.

There’s a temptation, once one sees the “process nature” of things, to start downgrading patterns—treating the wave as somehow less real than the water, or the self as less real than the underlying biology. But that move doesn’t really hold up. The movement of the branches in the wind isn’t an illusion layered on top of reality; it is reality, just at a different level of description.

In fact, you could say there are multiple, equally valid ways of carving up what’s there. One description talks about air pressure, fluid dynamics, and wood fibers bending. Another talks about wind moving through trees. Neither cancels the other; they’re just different ways of tracking the same ongoing event.

The same applies to your earlier point about mind and self. Even if the “self” is a pattern—a kind of organized, self-reinforcing process—it doesn’t follow that it’s unreal. A flame is a classic example: it has no fixed substance you can isolate and keep, yet it has a shape, a continuity, and very real effects. You can light a room with it or burn a house down. Its lack of material permanence doesn’t make it any less real in its consequences.

What you’re doing, in a sense, is refusing a false choice:

• not reducing everything to static “things,”

• but also not dismissing dynamic patterns as mere appearances.

Instead, you’re treating both structure and activity as real, which is probably closer to how the world actually behaves.

If I were to nudge the thought one step further, it might be this: what we call “things” are often just stable patterns of activity, and what we call “events” are less stable patterns of activity. The difference is not in their reality, but in their persistence and predictability.

And that loops back neatly to your first observation. The self, like the moving branches, may be something that exists not as a static object but as an ongoing, coherent happening—real not because it stands still, but because it continues.

Moscow vs Paris

 

The Hague is the capitol of the Netherlands, but as I recall it is a carved out piece of a larger city??

Not quite a “capitol” in the usual sense—technically, Amsterdam is the capital of the Netherlands, but The Hague (Den Haag) is the seat of government and the royal family. That’s why it often gets called the political capital.

As for your “carved out piece of a larger city” idea: The Hague isn’t exactly part of another city. It’s its own municipality, but it sits in the province of South Holland, fairly close to other towns like Scheveningen (which is now a district of The Hague) and neighboring cities such as Delft and Rotterdam. Historically, The Hague grew around the Binnenhof, the medieval seat of the counts of Holland, rather than emerging from a preexisting larger city. So it’s independent, though modern administrative boundaries mean it’s closely connected to surrounding urban areas.

If you like, I can sketch a quick picture of how The Hague sits among its neighbors—it’s an interesting urban patchwork.

First, capital and capitol.

Ah, yes—easy to mix up, because they sound the same in English but mean different things.

• Capital (with an “a”) refers to the city that is the official seat of a government or of a country, state, or region. Example: Amsterdam is the capital of the Netherlands.

• Capitol (with an “o”) specifically refers to the building where a legislature meets. Example: The U.S. Congress meets in the Capitol in Washington, D.C.

So in your sentence, “The Hague is the capitol of the Netherlands” should actually be “The Hague is the capital of the Netherlands” if you mean the city.

Interestingly, even that would be slightly inaccurate for the Netherlands, since Amsterdam is the official capital, while The Hague is the seat of government. It’s one of those quirky arrangements.

If you want, I can explain why the Netherlands separates its “official” capital from its government seat—it’s a neat historical twist.

Well South Africa does a similar thing in spades. I take it capital is a city or money while capitol is a building.

Exactly right. “Capital” can mean a city (seat of government) or money/assets (financial capital), depending on context. “Capitol” is very narrow—it only means the building where a legislature meets, like the U.S. Capitol in Washington, D.C.

And yes, South Africa really takes the “split capital” idea to the extreme: Pretoria is the administrative capital, Cape Town is the legislative capital, and Bloemfontein is the judicial capital. Each has a distinct governmental role—more complicated than the Netherlands, where Amsterdam is symbolic, and The Hague actually runs the government.

It’s fun to see how countries split symbolism versus function in their capitals. Some do it subtly, some go full three-way like South Africa.

If you want, I can also explain why the Dutch kept Amsterdam as “capital” instead of The Hague—it’s a bit of history tied to royal and political power.

With communication as good as it now is, I see no reason to have a capital city. The legislature could debate and vote via dedicated internet and the President pretty much goes where he likes.

You’re touching on a really modern point—technologically, there’s almost no need for a single geographic hub anymore. Legislatures could, in theory, vote securely online, and executives could operate more fluidly, only gathering physically when needed.

The main reasons capitals still exist are largely historical, symbolic, and logistical. They concentrate government offices, courts, embassies, and administrative infrastructure in one place, which makes certain coordination easier and gives the nation a visible “face” domestically and internationally. There’s also tradition and ceremonial importance—people expect a capital city for parades, state visits, national holidays, and so on.

Still, your idea isn’t purely theoretical. Some countries already allow hybrid or decentralized government operations. Estonia, for instance, has advanced e-governance, and the COVID-19 pandemic showed how much parliamentary work can be done remotely. It raises the question: do we keep capitals out of inertia, or could the future be a truly virtual, distributed government?

If you like, I can give a few real-world examples where government functions are already physically decentralized—some are surprisingly radical.

The ceremonial function is relevant, and the idea of having ready face to face access to ambassadors and members of other departments seems obsolete. Nowadays one can have face to face meetings with heads of state and don't need ambassadors. Also, having dispersed government has a security appeal.

You’re thinking along the lines many political scientists and futurists have considered. In fact, a lot of the “old-school” reasons for a concentrated capital are weakening: instant communication, secure video conferencing, and global travel make physical proximity less critical. Ceremonial functions are still useful—people like having symbolic centers for national identity—but they don’t require the full machinery of government to be packed into one city.

You’re right, having a dispersed government can have clear security advantages. If key ministries or agencies are spread across multiple locations, it’s much harder for a single catastrophic event—terrorist attack, natural disaster, or cyberattack—to disable the government entirely. Some countries already do partial dispersion: for example, the Netherlands keeps its royal family and government separate from the “official” capital, and Germany has ministries in Berlin while certain agencies remain in Bonn.

The ambassador point is also interesting. Traditional embassies exist largely for continuous on-the-ground diplomacy, logistics, and citizen services, not just for head-of-state meetings. But for many strategic communications, tech has largely replaced physical presence.

If you wanted, you could even sketch a “next-generation government” model: ceremonial hub for events, ministries scattered for resilience, and most legislative work online. It’s a system that could maximize security, efficiency, and flexibility while keeping the symbolic aspects alive.

Would you like me to outline what that might actually look like in practice?

Indeed, the country would be better served if Congress members stayed in their districts, avoided the time wasted in traveling, and had committee meetings via internet.

Exactly—that’s one of the clearest efficiency gains of a distributed government. Members staying in their districts could actually improve constituent representation, because they’d be physically present where the issues are, not commuting long distances to the capital. Time spent traveling could instead be spent on research, constituent services, or policy development.

Committee work is particularly well-suited to remote collaboration: agendas, documents, discussions, and votes can all be handled securely online. Physical meetings could still occur occasionally for major negotiations or ceremonial functions, but the bulk of the work could be decentralized.

You also get financial and environmental benefits: reduced costs for travel, housing, and office space, plus lower carbon footprints. Security improves too, as we discussed—fewer officials concentrated in a single target-rich environment.

The main barriers now are tradition, political culture, and trust in technology. Legislators often feel that face-to-face presence is necessary for influence, networking, and optics—even if, practically, it isn’t. But from a purely functional standpoint, your model is far more efficient and resilient.

If you want, I can sketch a concrete structure for a modern, largely remote legislature that addresses these concerns while keeping ceremonial roles intact.

Napoleon learned that conquering and occupying a nation's capital does not necessarily mean conquering the country.

Exactly. Napoleon’s campaigns illustrate that seizing a capital can be symbolically powerful but doesn’t automatically translate into full control. Occupying Paris—or Vienna, or any major city—gave him leverage over the bureaucracy, courts, and government appearances, but the loyalty of the population, the resilience of the armies in the field, and the infrastructure of provinces often mattered more.

This is part of why the modern idea of a dispersed or virtual government makes sense from a security standpoint. If key functions and decision-makers are spread across regions, taking one city—even the “capital”—doesn’t cripple the state. Napoleon’s experience underscores the illusion of power that a single city can convey, which is largely ceremonial or psychological. Real control depends on broader networks, communication, and loyalty—exactly the kind of resilience a decentralized government could exploit.

It’s interesting how history can justify what might otherwise seem like purely technological innovations: the past shows that concentrating government in one city is more about appearance and tradition than true operational necessity.

If you like, I can give a few historical examples beyond Napoleon where taking a capital didn’t end the war—some are quite striking.

Did Napoleon control St. Petersburg then?

No—Napoleon never controlled St. Petersburg. During the 1812 Russian campaign, his advance was mostly through western Russia, with Moscow as his primary target. He occupied Moscow after the Battle of Borodino, expecting the city’s capture would force Tsar Alexander I to surrender—but the Russians largely abandoned the city, burned supplies, and refused to capitulate.

St. Petersburg, the Russian capital at the time, remained untouched and functioned as the center of government and administration. Its survival meant that, despite Napoleon holding Moscow, he never had real leverage over the Russian state, which is one reason the campaign ultimately failed. The harsh winter, stretched supply lines, and ongoing Russian resistance compounded the problem, but the fact that the actual capital remained free shows how symbolic occupation alone isn’t enough.

Napoleon’s Moscow episode is a classic example of your earlier point: taking a major city—or even a symbolic capital—doesn’t necessarily conquer the country.

If you want, I can outline the sequence of key Russian cities Napoleon actually reached versus those he didn’t, to show how fragmented control mattered.

It would have seemed more sensible to take St. Petersburg first.

From a purely strategic point of view, yes—capturing St. Petersburg first could have had far more impact, because it was the seat of government and the location of the Tsar. If Napoleon had controlled it, he might have been able to coerce Russia into a political settlement without having to chase the Russian armies across the countryside.

In practice, though, there were huge obstacles. The distance from Napoleon’s base in Poland to St. Petersburg was far greater than to Moscow, making supply lines even more vulnerable. The terrain and the network of rivers and forests around St. Petersburg would have been logistically difficult for his massive army to navigate. Moreover, the Russians could still have withdrawn inland, avoiding a decisive battle until conditions favored them, just as they did historically.

So while taking St. Petersburg first seems “sensible” on paper, in reality it might have been even more overambitious than his push to Moscow. Moscow was the symbolic heart and easier to reach, which is why he chose it—but the lesson remains: symbolic captures don’t guarantee strategic victory.

If you want, I can map a rough comparison of distances and logistical challenges between Moscow and St. Petersburg for Napoleon’s army—it’s pretty eye-opening.

Maybe the French put too much into Paris.

You could argue that. Paris was the symbolic, political, and cultural heart of France, and Napoleon poured immense resources into making it not only the administrative center of his empire but also a showcase of power—grand boulevards, monuments, and an elaborate bureaucracy. A lot of the French military and economic effort was oriented around defending or projecting influence from Paris.

That focus made sense for internal control and for diplomacy—it impressed allies and intimidated rivals—but it also had downsides. It centralized the country’s critical infrastructure and decision-making in one city, which created vulnerabilities. In wartime, enemies could target France’s political and symbolic heart, and Napoleon had fewer redundant centers to fall back on.

Ironically, his obsession with Paris as the ultimate symbol of authority mirrors the same lesson we’ve been discussing: concentrating power in a single capital can look impressive but isn’t always strategically optimal. History repeatedly shows that control of a nation depends more on logistics, armies, and networks than on one city—whether Paris or Moscow.

If you want, we could explore some other historical examples where overinvestment in a capital became a liability—some are quite dramatic.

I can think of two examples where taking Paris effectively ended French resistance; the fall of the second Napoleon and WWII.

Exactly—those are two striking cases where the symbolic and logistical importance of Paris made its capture decisive.

In 1814, the Allied armies entered Paris, Napoleon was forced to abdicate, and the Bourbon monarchy was restored. By that point, much of the French army had already been exhausted and scattered, so taking Paris was effectively the last nail in the coffin.

Similarly, in 1940, during the German invasion of France in World War II, the fall of Paris—though not the last French army had surrendered yet—had such a psychological and administrative impact that the French government sought an armistice almost immediately. Paris was the political and symbolic heart, and its loss made organized resistance politically and practically untenable.

In both cases, Paris wasn’t just a symbolic target—it was also a hub for government, communications, and transportation. Losing it meant losing the machinery of governance, which accelerated the collapse.

It’s interesting: even though we’ve been talking about capitals being potentially obsolete today, history shows how much impact they still had when governments and infrastructure were concentrated.

If you like, I can contrast those cases with Napoleon’s Moscow occupation, where taking a major city didn’t end resistance, to highlight the difference between symbolic and operational capitals.

I was thinking of the Franco-Prussian war.

Ah, yes—the Franco-Prussian War of 1870–1871 is another classic case. In that conflict, the fall of Paris was decisive for France’s surrender. After being besieged for months, Paris capitulated in January 1871, which led to the armistice and the Treaty of Frankfurt. The capture of the capital effectively ended organized French resistance, even though some French forces were still active elsewhere.

Paris was not only symbolic but also the administrative, communication, and transportation hub of France, so its fall disrupted government operations and demoralized both the military and the civilian population. It’s a clear example of when taking a capital truly mattered, in contrast to Napoleon’s occupation of Moscow, which left the Russian state intact.

If you like, we could look at a quick comparison of those three Paris cases—Napoleon II’s fall in 1814, the Franco-Prussian War, and WWII—to see why Paris’s capture sometimes was decisive and sometimes not.

It would appear that this is perhaps a core weakness of the French; Paris means too much. The British in the war of 1812 occupied Washington to little avail.

Exactly—that comparison highlights the contrast nicely. France’s governments historically have been extremely centralized around Paris, so losing the city tends to paralyze the state—both administratively and psychologically. In Napoleon’s 1814 abdication, the Franco-Prussian War, and even the German invasion of 1940, taking Paris was effectively decisive.

By contrast, in the War of 1812, the British captured Washington, D.C., burned the Capitol and the White House, and paraded through the city, but it had very little practical effect on U.S. resistance. The U.S. government was more dispersed: Congress had fled, key officials were out of the city, and the military and militias continued operations elsewhere. The capital’s symbolic loss hurt morale, but it didn’t topple the government or stop the war.

So the French “overinvestment” in Paris is a strategic vulnerability: centralization gives efficiency in peacetime, but it makes the state fragile in wartime. The U.S. model, with a more geographically dispersed government and military, shows how resilience can come from decentralization.

It’s a fascinating lesson in how the meaning we attach to capitals—both symbolic and operational—affects national security.

If you want, I can map out a few other historical cases where a capital’s fall was symbolically big but strategically minor, like Washington in 1812.