This is Essay 4, Part I, in a series of five essays entitled
The Abyss of Civilization.
Link to Essay 1: The Invention of Gender Roles: Division by Design
Link to Essay 2: The Annihilation of the Ontological Feminine
Link to Essay 3: The Rise of Religion and Transcendence
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle
— W. B. Yeats, The Second Coming (1919)
Introduction
The West.
Few terms have been used so often—and understood so little.
We all think we know what it means. The word is richly evocative, embedded in countless narratives, carried forward through education, media, and politics.
Perhaps it is invoked so frequently that everyone now carries a personal version of “the West,” either inhabiting it or being pursued by it, depending on which end of its power one stands.
In this essay, we will allow ourselves to be consumed by the concept—not because the theme demands it, but because we have been consumed by it all along, and may only now be seeing it clearly for the first time.
We begin by appending the term mythos to “the West,” acknowledging that it is not so much a place as a meticulously—and brilliantly—constructed system composed of many interlocking parts. This adjustment brings us closer to the image implied by the title: not a monster stitched together from corpses and jolted into life, but a strikingly handsome figure—entirely masculine—whose polished surface seduces.
Drawn in by its austere majesty, triumphant deeds, and narcissistic self-regard, we struggle to see either the monster we created—civilization—or the progeny it generated.
Yes, the West has been subjected to extensive critique. But I will show that such critiques rarely reach its core nature and are more often absorbed, neutralized, and ultimately survived by the system itself.
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In the first three essays, we closely followed how the stage of civilization evolved in the ancient Near East (ANE) and how fundamentally destructive it proved for humanity and its collective psyche (Psyche). What began as a tear in the fabric of being was catalyzed by the novel and traumatic conditions of life in relatively high-density urban environments on the Sumerian plain. Within this transformation, male social roles became increasingly associated with dominance and violence, while women remained comparatively protected. Of central importance is how civilization operates through multiple mechanisms to eradicate relational being (RB), severing our connection to Psyche, nature, and even reality itself.
In Essay Two, we left off with the Hebrew cultural inheritance from Babylon—an inheritance that was both extensive and selective—even as later traditions worked to distance themselves from its source. This process involved large-scale redaction and rewriting of earlier scripture toward a strict form of monotheism where none had existed before.
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Throughout this essay series, I have confined my inquiry to developments within the ANE and ultimately their influence on Europe. This focus is warranted by Europe’s deep inheritance of ANE patterns, but also by the outsized role European expansion played in the Modern Era and in constructing the postmodern global order we now inhabit.
Given the extraordinary scope of this undertaking, an approach was required to render the project tractable. By placing the question of being as the central thread, the Western Mythos comes into view with surprising clarity. In so doing, four moments in this trajectory are salient:
- The Hebrew NOT (c. 550 BCE) marks the opening of civilization’s second half, as ANE culture is first transmitted into the West. This is how the first negative ontological transfer (NOT) becomes structurally embedded into a newly systematic theological form.
- The Christian NOT (c. 50–200 CE), through which Judaism is universalized and intensified.
- The Augustinian NOT (c. 400 CE), where Catholic theology is consolidated and formalized into a comprehensive system with lasting effects on society and the individual.
- The Modern Era (from c. 1500 CE), inaugurating the Protestant Individual and translating the underlying ontology into increasingly secularized social, political, and economic forms.
*****
Between the twin pillars of reality—the physical and the metaphysical—lies ontology, or simply, being. Yet it is not a third pillar alongside them; it is what makes both possible. Ontology names the dynamic through which reality unfolds and through which its parts stand in relation.
I posit that being is fundamentally relational, and that all entities, including human beings, exist together within a shared Field of Relationship (FOR). Everything within this Field is vital, if for no other reason than that all are composed of matter and energy in ceaseless interconversion. Philosopher Jane Bennett, in Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things, makes a compelling case for the vitality of matter itself, arguing that agency, force, and efficacy are not exclusive to human subjects but emerge from assemblages of material relations.
Immanence refers to being’s self-presence and its capacity for activity independent of human perception. Within the FOR, all entities are equal in ontological value, and each belongs. These values precede any human articulation of rights or justice; they are immanent to being itself—not moral constructions, but the lived truth of existence.
When humans lived as hunter-gatherers (HGs), they adapted to the conditions of life in nature with an ease that later ages could scarcely imagine. Their psyches were integrated—mind, body, brain, and animality functioning as a single responsive whole—and this integration allowed them to register being directly. Ontological awareness was not episodic or elevated; it formed the very texture of daily life.
Their animistic orientation reinforced this attunement. The world was experienced as alive and responsive, with people, animals, landscapes, and objects participating within the same Field. To live was to remain in ongoing contact with the vitality that surrounded and sustained them.
The values associated with the HG ethos—cooperation, sharing, relative egalitarianism, and a sense of collective body–mind continuity—were necessary for the survival and wellbeing of small bands, but they did not originate as moral codes. They arose organically from these same ontological conditions. Living within the Field, relation did not need to be constructed or enforced; it was simply the mode of existence itself.
In what I regard as the greatest tragedy in human existence, roughly 286,000 years of this way of life gradually came to an end in the ANE during a prolonged period of transition. This shift initiated a weakening of Psyche’s coherence and of our position within the Field of Relationship (FOR). Yet, as we have seen, the feminine chthonic spirituality of the transitional period between life in nature and the stage of civilization remained sufficiently vital to counterbalance many of these pressures.
With the emergence of civilization, however, as practices, customs, and values adjusted to the unfamiliar conditions of urban density, anonymity, and increasing complexity, Psyche began to dis-integrate, losing its connection to the Field. This development cannot be overstated. Civilization could only take hold when each individual psyche was compromised. Only through such impairment could the vast, self-perpetuating organism we now inhabit have come into being—and endured.
It thrived—but only at our great expense. Yet the connection between Psyche and RB proved amazingly resilient, posing a dire threat to civilization. This is why so many new measures—such as transcendence, religion, sacrifice, and negative ontological engineering—were vitally needed to sustain civilization.
At the conception of the West: From the Hebrew transformation to the Greek overlay
The Jerusalem–Athens axis is often celebrated as the twin foundation of what is called “the West.” And this is correct—but only in a deeply destructive sense.
The Greek contribution to this axis begins with the convergence of steppe warrior culture and the Homeric world around the eighth century BCE. Though overtly militaristic and patriarchal, these traditions remained comparatively relational—still close to land, body, and fate, and not unlike earlier ANE formations that had not yet fully disengaged from the Field. Their animating impulse was heroic and adventuresome, organized around the emerging figure of the individual and his exploits, yet still carrying residual vitality from a world not yet fully severed from relational being.
The Hebrew contribution was markedly different—not a warrior culture, but patriarchal in its exclusion and vilification of women. As discussed in Essay Two, the Babylonian exile was both traumatic and transformative. Babylon represented the apex of ANE urban sophistication: a vast and dazzling power whose scale and coherence would have appeared overwhelming to a people with recent pastoral roots. The Hebrew elite, especially the priestly caste, felt a profound sense of inferiority and displacement, which ultimately posed an existential threat to Jewish survival.
To ensure continuity, a sharply distinctive narrative took shape. The Hebrews borrowed copiously from Babylonian culture while simultaneously denigrating it in scripture, a maneuver that functioned to obscure the extent of this inheritance. The Ontological Feminine (O/F) was displaced outward and projected onto the broader ANE—Babylon in particular, and “the East” more generally—binding the denigration of women to the disparagement of the orient.
The image endures: the “Whore of Babylon”—later canonized in the Book of Revelation but drawing on earlier Hebrew symbolic traditions—continues to echo in contemporary religious rhetoric, saturated with inherited revulsion. Babylon was cast as seductive, excessive, and idolatrous—the “mother of harlots.” Most tellingly, Babylon became the fallen woman, while Jerusalem was elevated as the redeemed virgin. This symbolic inversion—hostility toward the wild, chthonic, and immanent feminine—forms a central strand of the so-called “Judeo-Christian” ethic and its masculinized cast. A further dimension of this process can be seen in the purity systems codified in the Hebrew legal corpus.
As discussed in Essay Two, Purity and Danger demonstrated how concepts of purity, sanctity, and order function as mechanisms of boundary maintenance. While Mary Douglas did not frame these laws as explicitly anti-woman, their symbolic architecture disproportionately focused on the feminine—particularly phenomena associated with blood, birth, and generative processes.
All of this culminated in an increasingly ascetic practice centered on a singular, exclusive male deity—the first instance in which divinity appears fully severed from plurality and relational embeddedness. Around this figure, a rigid moral ordering took shape: insiders and outsiders, purity and defilement, elevation and abasement. Within this ordering, woman and animal life—once integral to cosmological continuity—were increasingly rendered problematic, reduced to sites of regulation, control, and sacrifice.
Friedrich Nietzsche traced the phenomenon he called ressentiment to this historical arrangement, observing how prolonged powerlessness could be transmuted into a moral posture that revalues weakness as superiority—being weaker yet more righteous than the strong. Ressentiment remains curiously underexamined, I suggest, because it cuts too close to the foundations of how value, justification, and moral self-understanding operate within civilization. And though it took shape more than twenty-five centuries ago, its perverse logic continues to structure how the modern world interprets virtue, guilt, and legitimacy.
This moment marks the first instance of a NOT—the earliest of a trio of religious NOTs. More structured and insidious than ressentiment, these arise through theological mechanisms designed to eradicate any traces of RB that linger and to elevate one people over another. This is the first such instance of promoting one ethnic group or culture at the expense of another.
This warrants particular attention, as it became a defining influence within the Western Mythos. At its core was a vision of order grounded in ascetic discipline, purity, linear hierarchy, and masculine dominance—an arrangement that persistently cast the feminine and natural processes as destabilizing forces. Woman, as the living expression of generative vitality, could never be fully displaced or externalized. Instead, she became the primary site of containment. What followed were systems of psychic, symbolic, and social enclosure—designed to preserve internal order by rigorously distinguishing the “pure” from the “impure” while socially debasing woman at the same time.
This also clarifies why the NOT emerged as a necessary civilizational development. Over two millennia had elapsed since the earliest shifts associated with transcendence, religious mediation, named divinities, and increasingly rigid gender asymmetries. Through continuous regulation and sustained pressure on the O/F, these earlier formations proved sufficient to establish civilization and stabilize it in the ANE. Only later did additional mechanisms become necessary to preserve coherence under new historical conditions.
This arrangement alone was not enough to generate the Western Mythos. That would require a further integration: combining Hebrew ontological displacement with the emerging Greek emphasis on abstraction, individuation, and elevation. These two strands operated together to stabilize what was to come.
Without absolving human responsibility for what followed, it is nonetheless accurate to say that civilization generated its own successor forms. Out of its accumulated pressures, internal contradictions, and unresolved displacements emerged something new: a decaying leviathan in the reeds, to borrow Rimbaud’s image—an organism born of civilization itself, which would come to dominate the West and, over time, extend its corrosive effects across the globe.
As consequential as the Hebrew–Greek amalgam was, it was not sufficient to propel the Western Mythos into its fully developed form. The challenges posed by foreign invaders necessitated additional elements. In particular, Christianity—aligned with later Greek abstraction and philosophical forms—would play a decisive role in bolstering and sustaining the West, extending its influence into the modern era and beyond.
The Christian configuration
There has never been a religious formation quite like Christianity. Over time, it became the most internally elaborated and institutionally resilient religious system in human history. Precisely because of this cumulative complexity, it proved unusually adaptable—capable of absorbing challenges, responding to crises, and reappearing in altered forms across successive eras. This capacity for reconfiguration helps explain Christianity’s extraordinary persistence, not only as a religion in its own right, but as a primary carrier of the Western Mythos for nearly two millennia.
My critique remains broadly aligned with existing analyses of Western myth-making, particularly in recognizing how Christianity developed mechanisms for expansion, continuity, and influence. But I find little to commend in the effects these mechanisms produced. Their success lay not in moral insight or ontological repair, but in their effectiveness at stabilizing and disseminating deep distortions of being.
Christianity began to take shape in the decades following Jesus’ death, amid acute instability in Judea. Roman domination, internal fractures, and the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE created conditions in which Jewish identity could not be coherently sustained across all contexts. Within this setting, emerging Christian communities gradually differentiated themselves from the broader Jewish population, largely—as we will see—as a result of the Christian NOT.
Even at this early stage, figures such as Paul—and later the gospel writers aligned with his views—began to articulate a new vision for their nascent religion. They steered it away from a narrow Judaic focus toward a universal orientation that would appeal to diverse populations of the Roman world. This transformation unfolded unevenly, requiring sustained discipline, interpretive creativity, and institutional consolidation across multiple stages. Among the most consequential of these developments—first articulated by Paul in the first century—were the following:
Syncretic absorption. As Christianity moved through the Roman world, it encountered an environment already saturated with shared mythic motifs, ritual forms, and symbolic languages. Concepts of dying and rising figures, divine sonship, sacred meals, and initiation rites were widely known long before Jesus. Over time, these motifs were appropriated as needed to appeal to pagans and Roman elites. The result was an increasingly broad, yet still coherent, theological system that was readily adopted by the masses.
Narrative realignment between the historical Jesus and emerging theology. Jesus’ ministry, rooted in Jewish life and shaped by prophetic expectation, had little to do with the theological orientation that ultimately came to dominate Christian thought. Through multiple stages, religious councils, and continually refined interpretations of the nature of the godhead (Christology), his life and death were re-narrated to be compatible with Pauline universalism. This realignment merged disparate elements such that the historical Jesus could coexist with the institutional Church. In the process, the initial Jewish and apocalyptic dimensions of Christianity were transformed into a religion oriented toward universal salvation.
Accommodation to imperial order and political reality. As Christian communities expanded across the Mediterranean, their continued existence depended on navigating and accommodating imperial power. Over time, Christian teaching came to emphasize order, obedience, and social stability in ways compatible with Roman authority and increasingly distant from the revolutionary currents of Judaism. This shift greatly facilitated Christianity’s gradual integration into—and eventual dominance of—the Roman Empire.
Theological supersession of Judaism. Christian interpretation increasingly recast Jewish symbols, scriptures, and covenantal claims as incomplete or provisional, asserting their fulfillment exclusively within Christ. This process enabled Christianity to retain the symbolic depth and antiquity of the Jewish tradition while simultaneously displacing the living community from which it arose. Judaism thus came to be positioned as a necessary precursor rather than a continuing bearer of meaning, reinforcing Christian distinctiveness while severing ongoing relational continuity.
Thus, a second religious NOT took shape as Christianity repositioned itself in relation to Judaism. Far from merely separating from its predecessor, it appropriated and absorbed it. By claiming the Hebrew scriptures as its own foundational texts, Christianity acquired a historical depth and antiquity it otherwise lacked, significantly strengthening its standing within the Roman world. Central to this move was a comprehensive rereading of Jewish scripture, in which messianic references were retroactively interpreted as having anticipated Jesus.
As this reconfiguration advanced, Christian leaders and texts increasingly framed Judaism as a problem to be explained. With the writing of the gospels, narrative emphasis portrayed Jewish authorities as resistant and truculent, introducing a sustained pattern of religious displacement unprecedented both historically and within sacred literature. The repeated negative depiction of groups such as the Pharisees and Sadducees marks a novel moment in which a living religious tradition was systematically positioned as obsolete from within a successor’s canon. The Gospels openly chastised Jewish priests for obstinacy and ignorance and, most consequentially, cast blame upon the Jewish people for Christ’s death. This negative ontological treatment became the direct cause of two thousand years of exclusion, persecution, and violence.
All of this unfolded within the first century after Christ. Much more would follow—first within Christian communities themselves, and then among the many other peoples gradually incorporated into their expanding universe. It is crucial to recognize that the Hebrew NOT of roughly 550 BCE provided a necessary but insufficient foundation for what would later be known as the Western Mythos. It would never have persisted if Christianity had not amplified and transmitted it—albeit in a profoundly perverse manner—across the Roman Empire, the medieval world, and eventually Europe as a whole.
A critically important illustration of this transformation can be seen in the opposition between works and faith in the New Testament. In Hebrew tradition, religious life was grounded in works: law, justice, and care for the poor functioned as sacred obligations embedded in communal existence. Jesus likewise oriented his teaching around works—not as legalism, but as the lived expression of relationship with God and with others. His emphasis was social and ethical, directed toward mutual care, healing, and restoration rather than confrontation with political authority. In this respect, his teaching remained partly aligned with RB and with the cooperative life of the community. Therefore, both the Hebrews and Christ affirmed the primacy of works—that deeds and actions mattered for achieving salvation. Paul radically altered this orientation, asserting instead that salvation could be achieved by faith alone.
This shift was only one among several doctrinal transformations associated with Paul, but it is the most revealing. The elevation of “faith alone” shows how fundamentally the center of theological gravity had moved. First, the role of works in sustaining communal obligation and mutual care was effectively nullified, thereby overturning Jesus’ social justice ministry. Second, the resulting framework tended to compel compliance with authority, reinforcing passivity rather than collective responsibility. Third, the drama of guilt, sacrifice, redemption, and salvation was progressively interiorized. The self now became the primary site of religious struggle, held responsible for all sin while simultaneously rendered powerless before God’s sovereign decision to grant salvation or not. It is thus understandable how this arrangement could generate persistent guilt, shame, distress, and angst.
Christianity therefore redirected Judaism’s and Jesus’ outward, historical orientation toward justice and collective responsibility into an inward focus on ascetic discipline and interior order. It is here that the Western Mythos undergoes its decisive inward turn.
That inwardness should not be mistaken for depth or repair. Mythos names the civilizational projection of its own unresolved needs onto the human psyche—now internalized, fragmented, and cut off from the Field of Relationship that once sustained it. What had been an integrated mode of being was reconfigured into an interior theater of regulation and control. From this point forward, the trajectory does not reverse; it intensifies.
The Augustinian Synthesis
The sack of Rome in 410 CE and the accelerating disintegration of imperial authority sent shockwaves across the Mediterranean world. For Roman citizens, it was an unthinkable humiliation; for the Church, a moment of acute uncertainty. Having only recently become entwined with imperial power, ecclesiastical structures now confronted the possible loss of the very framework that had stabilized their authority. The fate of both empire and faith was suddenly at risk, and the order that had bound them together was visibly unraveling.
Within this crisis, Saint Augustine of Hippo occupies a singular position. Few figures have responded to civilizational collapse with consequences as far-reaching. Unlike thinkers such as Confucius or Muhammad—who shaped enduring traditions under comparatively stable conditions—Augustine worked amid systemic breakdown. The theological–ontological regime that emerged from this moment, often described as the Augustinian Synthesis (AS), did not merely stabilize Christian thought in the short term; it supplied a durable framework through which authority, interiority, guilt, and obedience could be reorganized and transmitted. Through successive historical transformations, this configuration has continued to exert a profound influence, extending—through multiple intermediaries—into the structures that now underwrite the modern neoliberal global order.
The consequences of Augustine’s intervention were extraordinary. The Roman–Christian order did not immediately dissolve with the empire’s political collapse in 476 CE, but persisted in altered form as the dominant framework in Europe until roughly 1500 CE—and in other respects continues to shape life up to the present. In the process, competing religious currents were gradually marginalized, and a new mode of theological–political continuity took hold. The framework associated with Augustine enabled Roman authority to survive as a moral and symbolic system long after its administrative structures had vanished, allowing its influence to permeate medieval Europe and beyond. As I will show in Part II of this essay, this same regime would later prove indispensable to the Protestant Reformation and continues, through multiple transformations, to shape both modern and postmodern forms of life.
What made this possible was not only Augustine’s genius, but his capacity to draw together diverse intellectual currents—classical philosophy, Christian doctrine, Roman authority, and even an early understanding of psychology—into an order capable of holding even under conditions of instability. Despite the complexity of these converging strands, the resulting synthesis achieved a remarkable degree of coherence and durability. Its endurance testifies to how effectively it stabilized a fractured world by reorganizing authority, guilt, interiority, and obedience at the deepest ontological level.
A complete grasp of this may be beyond any single reader—including me—but that difficulty is itself revealing. The density, interrelation, and internal recursion of the AS generated effects that proved advantageous regardless of intent or design. Its intricacy invited sustained scholarly engagement, conferring prestige and authority through interpretation. Its elevated language and abstraction reinforced perceptions of sanctity among the broader population. Most importantly, its internal flexibility allowed it to be continually reworked in response to new historical conditions—a capacity that time has repeatedly confirmed. For these reasons, its principal components must be examined with care if we are to understand how profoundly it shaped the Western Mythos, including how we think, feel, and comport ourselves today.
To support such a bold hypothesis, it is necessary to examine the intellectual materials that converged in Augustine’s work. They were so numerous and heterogeneous that they effectively constituted a second major wave of Christian incorporation. Manichaean dualism, which Augustine had once practiced, left a lasting imprint, particularly in its stark division between light and darkness, purity and corruption. Pauline theology remained central, though several of its tendencies—especially interiorization, guilt, and dependence on grace—were carried far beyond their earlier articulation. The emerging synthesis increasingly favored hierarchy, interior discipline, and ontological separation.
Most consequential, however, was Augustine’s sustained engagement with Greek thought. Earlier Christian writers had approached pagan philosophy cautiously, but his work rendered it not only usable but authoritative. From this point forward, the Catholic tradition would remain markedly more intellectualized than most later Protestant versions. The older Homeric orientation—long grounded in fate, embodied struggle, and relational continuity—had already been displaced within Greek culture by Plato’s idealism. Drawing on much older currents of transcendence, Plato articulated a philosophy in which the invisible—essence, form, nous—was granted greater reality than the physical world itself. Later Neoplatonists refined this vision, rendering it more systematic and abstract, and therefore more compatible with Christian thought. Augustine drew especially from Plotinus, translating the impersonal, rational One into a singular, interiorized, and intensely personal God.
These vast incorporations—first within Christianity and later within the Augustinian system—created the impression that there was something in the faith for everyone. That openness functioned as an inducement to enter, but once inside, beware. Every variation, even the most permissive, became subject to an extraordinarily severe and punitive psycho-theological machinery—so corrosive that I refer to it as Augustine’s torture chamber: a self-enclosed system in which sin, guilt, and grace endlessly generate and reinforce one another.
If this sounds excessive, it is worth examining how—and under what pressures—such an arrangement took shape. What follows is necessarily complex, but the aim here is not embellishment; it is to represent, as faithfully and clearly as possible, the internal structure of the AS. To begin: in this final religious NOT, Paul’s theology had already centered sin within the individual, yet salvation still depended on participation in a redeemed collective—being “in Christ”—and thus retained an external, communal dimension. Augustine extended this logic further, drawing every element of salvation fully inward, into a new form of the self.
This marks the emergence of a recognizably modern interiority, though in a rudimentary and constrained form. The Augustinian self is not an agent but a vessel—not a source of action, but a receptacle for judgment. It becomes an inner room in which the drama of sin, guilt, submission, and grace is perpetually replayed, endlessly compelled to account for itself.
The second step in the salvational sequence is recognition—awareness of one’s sinfulness and disorder. It is here that a decisive constraint on free will first appears, and, as throughout the AS, the logic is intricate. The awakening of conscience is initiated by God alone; the individual cannot summon it. Yet once such illumination occurs, the individual is still required to respond—either by accepting it or turning away. Even then, the process remains precarious, as ongoing sin may obstruct its continuation. Because the moment of awakening lies entirely outside human control, no one can know if—or when—it will occur.
The third step—repentance—is similarly unstable. The Christian seeks God while burdened by guilt and by the repeated return of sinful behavior, rendering life “in Christ” intrinsically sorrowful. The will, in Augustine’s account, genuinely desires God yet remains encumbered by its fallen condition. It possesses liberum arbitrium, the minimal capacity to choose, but not libertas, true freedom, which is granted only through grace. The result is marked by persistent tension: desire without assurance, effort without security. These unresolved oppositions generate a closed internal circuit in which striving never culminates in rest.
There is far more to say about the Augustinian Synthesis, but enough has been established here to clarify its structure and significance. It is difficult to apprehend, but the effort must be made, because this interior pressure chamber—and the broader configuration to which it belongs—remains deeply embedded in Western culture and in the formation of the modern self. It may seem implausible that a religious formulation articulated seventeen centuries ago could continue to shape a largely secular world. But in Part II of this essay, I will argue that this is precisely what has occurred.
End of Essay Four PART I
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kevin R. Nelson is a self-taught writer and theorist whose work spans philosophy, anthropology, psychology, cognitive neuroscience, and critical theory. Prior to retiring from healthcare and government regulatory oversight, he published two articles in Nutrition Science News—one on international public health and another proposing an alternative heart-healthy diet. He also self-published Take Charge of Your Medical Care, a guide to navigating modern health systems.
Since 2016, he has devoted himself full-time to exploring the human condition and the roots of disconnection and injustice. His recent book, Reality Unedited: The Naturalistic Perspective, was published by Gatekeeper Press. Far From the Source, his most ambitious work to date, is currently under consideration for publication. He has also completed a trilogy of theoretical essays—The Psyche and the Tear—which are under review with several magazines. He lives in Peru with his wife and their animal companion, a cat who adopted them while they were living in Armenia.
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