The Black Swan

Nassim Nicholas Taleb, in his book The Black Swan, examines the impact of the highly improbable. His basic thesis is that random, improbable events are those that matter the most. He uses 9/11 as an example.

The title of his book comes from the story used to teach the scientific method: if you believe that all swans are white, each white swan that you find substantiates your claim. But seeing a black swan changes everything. It breaks the rule and thus necessitates a new one.

What do you think a swan tastes like? Chicken? They look delicious. I’ve written menus before, and I would LOVE to describe a swan dish. And eat one. You’re not so pretty when you’re in my stomach, are you? You stupid bird.

Taleb’s book focuses on the world-altering potential of the black swan. But think about your life. Unfortunately, your character is measured most by times you step outside it. All of the combined days that you don’t cheat on your spouse will never stand up to the one that you do.

Once in a while, if you’re lucky, a black swan might manifest itself in someone you meet. Someone that changes your assumptions and forces you to reconsider what you thought you knew. Marry that person. Or kill them.

So what the fuck do I do now? Impact of the random and highly improbable? My life is just a string of random events. I’d like to be defined by that clearly angry outburst about swans a few paragraphs above. Nicholas Thayer: hater of swans and author of garbage. If you are truly judged most by the moment you are most outside of your character, then perhaps I am perceived as normal. Yeah right.

If you home school your children, you deserve a slap. I feel sorry for your kids if the only social interaction that they get is with you, someone so afraid of the real world that you keep your child locked up like a zoo animal. One of the many benefits of devout religious followers. Society is bad! God is awesome!

Don’t fear the black swan, you Jesus freak. I am having serious issues with focus right now.

There is a novel in me somewhere. I feel it inside me – fucked by my own saliva-inducing fantasies about writing something that someone might actually pay attention to. Sometimes I have random moments of inspiration that feel worthwhile, but I don’t write them down. And then they’re gone.

Characters jump in and out of my head. And titles. And lines. And paragraphs. Fleeting words mashed together in a dizzying hysteria of verbs and nouns. My head fills itself and purges. Bulimia of the mind. Someday I’ll write some of them down instead of forcing myself to combat insomnia with this unnatural trash.

Then, just maybe, I’ll write something that doesn’t digress to a powerful hatred for water fowl and home schooling. Maybe.