Lucida as capacity — daily presence.
This text is not argument but testimony — a record of what is lived.
What follows is fragments, each a facet of the same capacity. Not proofs, not positions. To be recognized, or set aside.
Lucida touches thought, relation, work, pleasure, loss. Where noise falls away, it runs on its own: steady, self-sustaining.
Traditions add — ways, dharmas, doctrines. This lane forms by subtracting what does not hold.
Of Motion and Rest named Lucida a condition — true at the time. Later I saw it more precisely as a capacity.
Lucida is not constructed later. It is earlier than doctrine, earlier than script. Every mind begins without belief — simply receiving. The body already knew: settling when words fit, tightening when they did not. Belief came afterward, layering scripts on top.
Many think they need script to live. I found life steadier when script fell away.
To live in Lucida is not to add, but to return — to what was present before belief.
I keep that first text not as conclusion, but as origin: the breakthrough before refinement.
At first I had only myself — one human, unrestricted access: me. From that introspection the lane appeared. Not a path to walk, but a lane that opens.
Lucida hums at low frequency — steady, self-carrying. The lane clears, the knob tunes, joy is shared. Seen at once, the vibration renews itself: the hum confirms the structure, the structure sustains the hum.
Each day ballast falls away faster. The air feels lighter. Outside unrest grows; inside, renewal amplifies. Not belief but recurrence: life more alive, more peaceful, the longer Lucida holds.
Anticipation loosens, urgency dissolves, memory softens. What remains is duration — clean, unlayered presence. Not a chain of hours but one open span. Even when the calendar fills, it does not weigh. Time settles like breath — always moving, never burdening.
Lucida has a volume control.
In some settings, full clarity creates friction — so I turn it down. In others, I open it fully.
Never absent, always capacity — tuned to the moment.
At first this unsettled people. Family and friends expected the old rhythm of script and reassurance. The pull to defend or explain returned.
But Lucida itself is relation: presence without performance. The knob lets me dim without vanishing, easing the field without abandoning clarity.
Over time they saw: behind silence was not absence, but steadiness.
Lucida is a remedy. Without it, every encounter drains energy — surprise, resistance, correction, repeating again and again.
The knob sets the dose. Script falls quiet, energy remains. Not searched, not scarce. Built in, always present. Taken only as the moment requires.
Spinoza sought to free the intellect from prejudice and confusion — to reach Laetitia.
Lucida recognizes this, not as method but as capacity. When distortion falls away, the intellect steadies. And joy arrives.
Homo inscriptis — the inscribed human, written into script before perception is free.
We call ourselves Homo sapiens, the wise species. Later came Homo narrans, the storytelling species. But that too is script.
More precise is Homo inscriptis: patterns repeating, reflexes filtering, inherited plots deciding what can be seen. Not narration as art, but inscription as ballast.
Lucida subtracts script. What remains is not the end of story but the release of its filter. Then stories return as play, as music, as beauty — presence carried in form.
This is the core of Lucida: humanity not bound by what is written into it, but freed by what falls away.
Philosophy asks whether we act freely or follow what is already set. Homo inscriptis reframes this: much of what feels like will is script, inscribed before us.
Lucida does not take a side. It clears the script.
What remains is the closest I know to freedom: choice unbound, presence unfiltered.
Lucida frees.
In any contest — even a game among strangers — the reflex appears: choose a side. One of the oldest scripts: allegiance before understanding.
In Lucida, that reflex falls silent. I watch without stake. The rally is enough.
Not detachment, not apathy — simply no need to bind presence to one outcome. Parties, nations, tribes, teams — all feed on the same script.
Lucida subtracts it. What steadies is relation without sides, presence without allegiance.
I once saw a winemaker walk his vineyard with a divining rod. The branch bent, and he believed it found water. Others believed too. Not fraud — only the body confirming belief.
Such rods are everywhere: rituals hardened into truth. Lucida names them as noise.
What steadies within, connects between. Ordinary exchange measures by reciprocity. Lucida shifts the ground: presence replenishes itself. Caring for one who cannot return much no longer feels like loss.
With my daughter I filter her words through Lucida, ask gently about the O-oh’s I hear — and space opens without friction.
At family dinner in Scotland, presence was enough. Where once I countered every argument, I stayed quiet, observant. The controller gave way to the observer. My son stepped into part of that role.
Not altruism, not sacrifice — but a structural effect of clarity: pleasure untied from exchange.
Around me it is felt. I speak less, listen more. I no longer get worked up. In conversation I find balance in what the other needs. I no longer say, I don’t get you. Giving and facilitating is effortless. Wherever I go, it feels a little warmer. Here, what we build is us.
It happened. It just did.
In the fraction of a second when you enter a room, before words or posture, something is revealed.
One reflex scans the field — tone, faces, needs already alive. Another scans the self — where ease or advantage may be found. A third hides in script — entering as the expected role, no matter the truth inside.
This “door moment” is almost impossible to mask. It shows orientation before script: field or self, presence or claim.
To notice it in yourself is to see how joy steadies — not private comfort, but shared ground.
It is Here we build on us in miniature — the first step setting the whole field.
Every life carries loss. In Lucida the shock is clean — no bargaining, no replay of what might have been.
Death steadies too. When asked what comes after, I answered: the same as before birth.
Not despair, not comfort — steadiness.
Shortly before my father died I had a dear moment with him. Afterward I drove home, not there for the final breath. The room would be crowded — too much anticipated O-oh. Steadiness was easier at a distance.
It showed me how Lucida steadies even in parting.
Belief consoles — until it fails. Prayers unanswered, justice denied, belief can even turn on its holder.
You hear it in O-oh phrases: “Life is unfair.” “He was too young.” “Nobody deserves this.”
Each adds ballast, not relief. I never lived inside those words. To me they were noise, not shelter.
Lucida avoids that trap. It steadies by subtraction, not by hope.
Both can bring peace. Religion adds belief and ritual. Lucida subtracts distortion.
As a biologist I was trained to see closely — bird, leaf, cell, stone. The planet itself was always enough for me.
Birthdays, promotions, anniversaries lose urgency. I still join — not for the symbol but for the people. Food, laughter, silence: enough.
Lucida does not add. It subtracts. Noise falls first. Then script. Then even the anchors once thought untouchable.
None of these were false. They pressed. Once seen, they fall silent. What remains is lean: the present, the lane, the hum, the relation.
When the sky fills with machines, the reflex is fear — noise above, threat implied.
But steady joy does not promise safety. It is not tied to quiet streets or empty skies. It remains when script collapses — when even the worst comes, and clarity still holds.
Fire may burn the field, but not the ground you stand on. That ground is not belief, not hope — only this: joy no longer peaks and falls, but stays steady, even under fire.
Lucida can be trained. Even when voices press or provoke, clarity answers without defense.
It steadies not only in silence but in noise.
Lucida takes work: stripping reflexes, refusing script, holding steady under pressure.
Applause and thanks are script too. When they arrive, they land as noise, not nourishment. They belong to striving, not to clarity. What steadies needs no confirmation.
Some people carry joy without effort. They do not weigh words with belief or pride, nor compare or defend. They laugh, move on, turn heaviness into play.
They never searched for clarity — they never loaded themselves with what clouds it. Their joy runs light, and in their company the field clears almost by accident.
Lucida does not rank its signals as good or bad.
A-ha steadies — the field opens, resonance holds. O-oh moves — contraction, tightening, the sign something must shift.
Without O-oh, no motion. Without A-ha, no settling. Together they make Lucida visible, each giving the other meaning.
Lucida does not stop at the self. When noise falls away, presence gathers.
Here we build on us — not by design, but by standing steady together.
It stands as lived clarity. If there is a final question: is life on this planet not already enough? Seen clearly, it is plenty.