Boredom

Considering a popular notion of Despair:

That it is born out of an unwillingness,

an unwillingness to be a self without,

a self coping with a loss, (or coping with a negative gain).

So: Despair comes from an unwillingness of becoming,

becoming the person who is specifically and inevitably without.

Example: Mourning a loss, (either by death or distraction).

The person who has lost someone significant despairs at being,

he or she despairs at being the person who is now inexorably without.

Despair is the unwillingness to accept the altered state of absence.

Despair is ‘amartia 1], and is hauntingly similar to Boredom, the deadliest of all inadequacies:

     People with experience maintain that proceeding from a basic principle is                     supposed to be very reasonable; I yield to them and proceed from the basic principle                 that all people are boring. Or is there anyone who would be boring enough to                             contradict me in this regard?...Boredom is the root of all evil.

     This can be traced back to the very beginning of the world. The gods were                   bored; therefore they created human beings. Adam was bored because he was alone;                 therefore Eve was created. Since that moment, boredom entered the world and grew                 in quantity in exact proportion to the growth of population. Adam was bored alone;                   then Adam and Eve were bored together; then Adam and Eve and Cain and Abel                         were bored en famille. After that, the population of the world increased and the                           nations were bored en masse. –SØren Kierkegaard

We get into all kinds of trouble when we think that we are bored, and this will without the slightest doubt lead to despair*.

*Written for one person in particular.

                               

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[i] Literally “missing the mark,” often translated as sin.

Roses are red

Violets are blue...

wait just a cotton picking moment,

Violets are violet.

Real Estate

We’ve driven by several memorials on this trip. Many of them were on the interstates. Others were on back highways and a few on country roads. Some had crucifixes. Others had wreathes. Sometimes notes were attached, though I couldn’t read them while moving.

I remember one memorial very well: We took a detour on one of the varicose turn-offs while campsite hunting on Last Dollar Road. Tucked away about a tenth of a mile was this tiny makeshift memorial. I crouched next to it. A man had lost his lifelong companion: a woman who lived between forty and fifty years. A small votive, some plastic flowers, and a pewter statue of St. Peter were all bound together with a small flowered garland. 

I read the note and it made me sad. 

I wish I could remember exactly what it said. 

It had something to do with the man’s soul now missing a piece. 

I just remember that the lady died in 2011. 

Everything struck me at once: the beauty of mountain we were on, the isolation, the cold wind whipping through the Aspen and Pine. I stared at the engraved and hyphenated dates, dates which were now bound by parentheses; two finite points on a seemingly infinite line. It was then that I felt this man’s grief. I felt compassion for a man whom I had never even met; I felt the weight of his loss and I felt it immediately.

We climbed back into the car and I was silent for a moment. “This is a very specific place” I thought.

And I continued to think about it.

“Place becomes specific when a memory is involved,” I thought to myself. This place is specific because this man placed his memorial here. Even if we don’t know the people or the stories involved we still understand the symbol here. I understand that this place has been specified by many memories.

I also understand that this place has been specified by one final memory, and I understand the symbols within this symbol, too. The votive for light, the saint for guidance and favor, the dates for linear time when this person existed, the flowers for youth, life, respect, beauty, comfort, rest, and so on. I also understand the parentheses. But why here? Why tucked away into the side of this particularly remote mountain? Why here at this very spot?

Maybe this is where they met, on a backcountry excursion through sheer coincidence.

Maybe this is where they would sneak off as teenagers to figure out the world and to make love.

Maybe this is where he realized that the two of them undoubtedly shared one soul.

Maybe this is where they decided that they truly loved one another.

Maybe this is where they decided to get married.

                                                or,

Maybe this is where she told him that she was sick.

And I thought about this for a while.

But the drive down was beautiful: full of twists, turns, switchbacks, and overlooks. Exponentially pastoral, idyllic, bucolic, and so on. Vistas and views that a person couldn’t quantify. And back there, tucked away on the side of a mountain was this place were gravity felt a little stronger just for a second.

Yeah, we’ve seen lots of memorials on this trip, but this one was very specific.

..

The Gentle Art of Selfishness

Realistic anxiety strikes us as something very rational and intelligible. We may say of it that it is a reaction to the perception of an external danger—that is, of an injury which is expected and foreseen. It is connected with the flight reflex and it may be regarded as a manifestation of the self-preservative instinct. On what occasions anxiety appears—that is to say, in the face of what objects and in what situations—will of course depend to a large extent on the state of a person’s knowledge and on his sense of power vis-à-vis the external world. We can quite understand how a savage is afraid of a cannon and frightened by an eclipse of the sun, while a white man, who knows how to handle the instrument and can foretell the eclipse, remains without anxiety in these circumstances. On other occasions it is actually superior knowledge that promotes anxiety, because it makes an early recognition of the danger possible. Thus the savage will be terrified at a trail in the jungle that tells an uninformed person nothing, because it warns him of the proximity of a wild animal; and an experienced sailor will look with terror at a small cloud in the sky that seems trivial to a passenger, because it tells him of an approaching hurricane.

-Sigmund Freud.

Consider the tiny cloud.

Consider the storm in its infancy.

Consider that those who have seen and recognized the nascent storm have a compelling anxiety for its inevitable landfall. Superior knowledge, then, means superior burden, depression; oppression; forces too potent for any human to resist and overcome.

“Take therefore not a thought for tomorrow; for tomorrow will look upon itself.”

Mattew 6:34

To totally decontextualize the above is to reiterate a cliché that had been, up until this point, swimming around in the minds of many, many humans. The cliché still swims; knowledge has the capacity to overturn exponentially overstated “truths,” but we’ve eaten that fruit already and thus learned that knowledge is cruel, for it can undo the most stoic of individuals. I look to the clouds and I see water vapor in multiform. My mind shapes the clouds into recognizable objects depending upon what mood I’m in, what anxieties I have.

We gaze upon that oncoming storm and if we haven’t any anxiety, then we haven’t any idea what moves towards us. If we do know, and we choose to ignore it, then we lie to ourselves. We listen as the waves begin to crash. We hear the thunder begin its low, unearthly growl, and we can feel ourselves moved by potential, yet all we see are clouds.

If we are honest, truly, truly honest, then all we can do is make ourselves comfortable and brace for impact. There is only a certain amount of comfort one can achieve, and often such comfort is short-lived and fleeting. This is anxiety, and sometimes it looks like selfishness.

Some Brief Nonsense on Being and Becoming

The equation is simple:

(joey) + (notion) = (joey-and-notion-becoming-a-new-being/type-of-being). 

A + B = C.

Easy as pie.

So, my wife is pregnant.

Let's think about this for a moment before we move on.

(Think Here)

This means that I’m going to be a father.

This is very complicated.

Much like the concept of being itself is also very complicated.

Here’s what I mean:

(joey) + (going-to-be-a-father) = (New notion of joey-who-is-going-to-be-a-father)

I told you it was complicated. To use sort of Heideggerian lingo, the “entities” within each of the above parentheses are separate entities in and of themselves. I would say that each one is its own individual “being,” but this cannot be the case for the notion of going-to-be-a-father, such an entity hasn’t any actual being itself, (though many beings certainly have it!).

So, to simplify, just consider the parenthetical ingredients as what they truly are: variables.

Now, since the concepts of “joey” and “going-to-be-a-father” are two separate concepts, (concepts that I thought might be exclusive for much, much longer than it appears to be, well, happening) so it must follow that the result is also variable, though not a variable. You see, the result “joey-who-is-going-to-be-a-father” has to be a new being; a more responsible being, a more considerate being, a being who can forgive and forget, a being who can act as pillow or punching bag, a being who can offer comfort, support, and an occasional ass-whooping, a being who can negotiate, interrogate, and turn an occasional blind eye to a dumb choice or poor decision, arts of which I, this present joey, have mastered. This new being will have to consider a whole new universe of information, a universe that doesn't revolve around lil' ol' me. And this is where it gets complicated: Me is all I know.

New “entities” in their infancy tend toward and are prone to severe existential contemplation.

* * * * * * * * *

It will be interesting to reflect on these few words when my son or daughter is old, or old-er, or old enough, or whatever the hell. I can see myself now, pining to be the “me” I was however long ago, remembering how good it was or how different it was. Yet I can also see this new aged version of myself mocking the me of yesteryear for being so green, so damned naïve, (which sounds like something older me would say). I can pine and pine and pine, but the notion of joey-who-is-going-to-be-a-father will be old hat by then, for the joey-who-is-a-father will be an entity in and of himself.

Couching the Concept of "Laziness"

I like to think about a lot of things. I think a large number of people are the same, and though I often feel as if no one thinks at all, this is only my perspective.

So, I was thinking the other day about the concept of laziness. I started thinking about what can be perceived as laziness could be a misinterpretation of an individual’s formula for existence. A formula for existence is part of the complex structure that one uses (either willingly or not) to construct his or her worldview. Understand what I’m getting at here? In other words, perception is based upon one’s worldview, so laziness, much like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.

But, then I read the penultimate sentence and stopped for a second. I thought, “is it grammatically correct to have the words can and could arranged such a way?” Then I start thinking, “what do these words have to do with grammar at all?” I start to think that maybe it would be better if I wrote instead “what might be perceived as laziness might also be a misinterpretation of an individual’s formula for existence.” I come to the conclusion that my concerns probably lie in the alliterative quality of the words can and could rather than their arrangement. So my concern is more an aesthetic one than it is a grammatical one. But wait, isn’t grammar itself an aesthetic? Yep, I mean, I think it is. An aesthetic is, after all, a set of principles. Then again, I don’t really know right now; I’m too lazy to think too hard on it at the moment, and I know that I’m not thinking about grammar while writing this; it’s reflectively  linear more than meticulously and surgically precise. Besides, I’m in the middle of something; I’m philosophizing. Wait, the words can and could have to do with tense and temporality, and who gives a crap about grammar right now except prescriptive grammar snobs, anyway? Or is it descriptive? Who cares? AHHH. I AM EASILY DISTRACTED.

Nevertheless, laziness is a perception. In other words, “laziness” is a judgment; it is a juxtaposition of life-formulas, a comparison of one’s preconceived notions of mental and physical action and inaction over another’s[1], but it is still a judgment, and we should never forget that it is a judgment based upon the “judge’s” very own standard of measurement, that is, his or her perspective.

Example: what one person might perceive as me lying on my couch, staring at a muted-television, eating a handful of grapes, crackers, and cheese, crumbs scattered around my general area, half-watching Sportscenter, half-contemplating what it means to exist, that is “working out the formula,” another person might perceive as me being, well, lazy. What a person might perceive as me just spending a lot of time on my couch over the years thinking (hundreds of hours perhaps) another person might perceive as sheer and utter laziness. That’s just a perspective. I’m not being lazy. But, then again, maybe I am. 

I’m a philosopher, I’m just being.

---

[1] And, when I write “preconceived” I mean “existed before as a quality established by the culture in which a person was raised.”

The Art of Forgetting What It Is That I Am Supposed to be Doing.

I’m sitting here sipping coffee from a mug that I picked up at a gift shop a few years ago. I’m supposed to be writing a serious essay, one that I’m to submit next month, but I’m instead distracted by this coffee mug. The fact of the matter is I don’t quite remember buying it. The mug is worn-white and slightly discolored from years of holding various colors of various liquids from coffee to, on a couple of occasions, piña coladas. On the front of the mug, (if you are right-handed, which I am not, so I will say on the back) it shows a shark with its blood red maw agape. Next to the shark are the words “Send us more tourists. The last ones were delicious! FLORIDA.” I remember the reason for buying the mug; it was for my wife. We sort of collect coffee mugs and she’s sort of full-blown addicted to drinking coffee. Therefore I am an enabler, so what? 

Nonetheless, I don’t exactly remember where the mug came from, though I’ve narrowed it down to a gift shop located somewhere in the lower droop of Florida. And, of course, like every other non-event in my life this lack of a memory got me to thinking about other memories.

So, I’ve been told by some of my friends and relatives that reading my essays can be difficult at times, which is a commentary on my inability to express clearly that-which-I-am-trying-to-convey. In my defense, the sentiments that I feel are often inexpressible: to confine them within a system such as language would be to pollute them; it would be to do them a great disservice. So, in short, it will be my task in this essay to write clearly and to modify (and reject if necessary) my urge to unravel (or weave) the structure that imprisons such inexpressible ideas.

Here we go:

The blinking cursor is taunting me. Blink. Blink. Blink. It’s waiting for me to write something, anything, and I’m just sitting here sipping coffee from my discolored Florida shark-mug and counting the incessant blinks. 137 is as far as I got before I typed “The blinking cursor is taunting me”.

I’m thinking about television for some reason. I’m thinking about Steven King’s alien clown, Pennywise. I’m thinking about its dead lights, that horrid luminescent distraction causing an ancient and hypnotic stillness. I’m thinking about David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest and the similarity that must exist between the weapon and the dead lights. Distracters. Immobilizers.

Florida is known for Sharks. I learned this by watching the television. The mug that has so effortlessly distracted its possessor symbolizes this knowledge in at least two ways: 1) with an image of a shark in general, let alone one with a blood red mouth[1], and 2) with a facetious quip about a shark’s culinary turn-ons, that is, that humans, particularly the tourist version of humans, are “delicious.”

According to the television, sharks are capable of blood frenzied trances and tonic immobility. Most of us tourists know that sharks go crazy at the scent of blood. But tonic immobility? Just flip them over, bellies pointed toward the heavens, and they will become hypnotically still. The television says this in between commercials.

Blink. Blink. Blink. 43.

Various manifestations of the media unwillingly participate in the dialectic between parents and the purported cause of A.D.D/A.D.H.D., which, simply put, means that some parents blame their kid’s erratic behavior and strobe-light attention span on a collection of decadent byproducts of a progressing technological age, (T.V., video games, smart phones, et cetera). Various mediums are, on the one hand, merely expressions of technology. Such mediums, on the other hand, are being weaponized by hypercapitalism on the order of influence, further persuading mass culture to consume mass quantities (and qualities) of meaninglessness[2]. Not too serious now. Stay focused. No weaving, though in this[3] I am a willing participant. After all, I’ve seen sharks on television, and I’ve swam with them in virtual ocean video games. These are compelling distractions, so much so that I felt the need to no doubt overpay for a Florida shark-mug to remember the fact that I spent some iota of time playing with my smart phone in the state of Florida, which, according to the television, is known for sharks, which are known for blood-frenzied trances and tonic immobility, in other words, distractions, (which is not to say that the blood frenzied trance and tonic immobility as components of a shark’s instinct is not the antithesis of such a concept as distraction, for what is instinct if not the purest form of will?) but I cannot for the life of me remember precisely when or where in Florida I bought this symbolic mug.

Easy now.

On a side note, I hate revision.  I hate it because it shows its reviser how much time is wasted revising. You spend time writing, and then you spend time erasing what you’ve already spent a great deal of time writing. Though revision is necessary, it’s wasteful; it’s creation by deletion, by the destruction of those tiny little moments when you thought you were creating something permanent, permanence being the grandest of all illusions. There is no such thing as an ancient beach, only in concept is this symbol aged. Consider the relocative power of the ocean.Distractions come in waves. Magnificent ocean waves. 

So, speaking of waves, I lost a pair of my most treasured ten dollar sunglasses while swimming in Punta Cana, Dominican Republic. They fit my face in the most perfect of ways, these black and neon green plastic sunglasses, like an angel massaging my temples. As I was wading chest deep into a red flag of an ocean, no doubt catching the eye of the resort’s lifeguard on duty, a giant’s fist of a wave reared back, curled, fired, and caught me square on the cheek. The force of the wave knocked me off of my feet, nearly taking my bathing suit with it. My sunglasses and hat flew in two different directions and I, no longer perpendicular to the packed sand beneath the aforementioned ocean, struggled mightily to right myself.

I saw my hat immediately. It was headed for the beach, floating upside down dead-jellyfish-like towards piña coladas and their possessors, both things of which relied on teak furniture and thatched roofs for protection from the sand and the sun. It took me a few eternal seconds to find my footing and adjust my shorts. The sunlight was much brighter than it had been thirty seconds prior, which made the already turquoise ocean even more ridiculous. My glasses were gone. My wife, after hearing my plea for assistance in locating my favorite convenience store eye protection, tried to console me. She noted that I had just made a sacrifice to Poseidon. Clever though the statement certainly was, it was not clever enough to comfort my now soggy, exposed, and throbbing cabeza. Besides, sacrifice connotes at least somewhat willing participants, and I wasn’t willing. My wife, then, and in not so many words, intimated something to the effect of you were willing enough to risk losing them by swimming with them in the first place! I think she said this with her eyes, which was what distracted me in the “first place.” Her eyes are the first thing that I noticed about her about a decade ago and they still hypnotize me.

Yes, the previous sentence is as soggy as my hat was when I placed it back atop my crown, but it’s true. My point is that I was watching my wife’s face; she was exuding sheer joy while swimming in the ocean. So what can I say? I got distracted, and I lost my sunglasses as a result. I will say, however, that this is a memory that I will never forget, for 1) I’ve written it down, and 2) I bought a coffee mug with a ridiculous turquoise ocean on the back.

---

[1] In other words, the shark is a symbol which has imbedded within itself a distinct attractive quality (i.e., the color of the blood red mouth). Therefore, many associations are made as the bright colored maw catches the eye of a particular tourist, that is, me.

[2] See footnote “3”.

[3] See footnote “2”.

Writing for Publication: Intent Versus Content

I’ve recently heard or read somewhere a curmudgeon’s diatribe about the omnipresence of cathartic virtual devices at the disposal of the general public. Apparently this is a bad thing. The individual was expressing certain dissatisfaction with the concept of self-publication, blogging, vlogging, and virtual opining via social networks, et cetera. It’s the same tired complaint about FaceBook’s purported influence on and exercise of relativity and narcissism. Sure lots of people are on FaceBook, and sure lots of those people over-post banalities, bang out the most cliché of platitudes, and, more often than not, straight up projectile vomit linguistic stupidity, and sure some people use such a device as a means for social juxtaposition and posturing, but most of these people aren’t philosophers; they’re just people, picture-taking-people feeding the addiction of the picture-looking-people, the Dionysian dialectic of sadism and voyeurism. It’s ironic that I myself haven’t a FaceBook account, (primarily because of my contrarian nature and my vertiginous spite for some pop-culture conventions) but I do have a blog. 

I understand what the curmudgeon was getting at. The more avenues there are for any individual to voice his or her own opinion, plus the more individuals there are who are both willing and able to practice and engage in such an enterprise means the less potential importance and possible chance for recognition that a scholar or a critic in such a field might possibly obtain. If the market is flooded with ideas, both similar and oppositional, then the ability to navigate through them becomes exponentially difficult. The fact that an individual (both in concept and in flesh) is merely a grain of salt falling towards a great ocean only to be immediately dissolved is a scary one to grasp, especially for those who consider themselves serious philosophers. Relativity is frightening to Absolutes.

But over time the pain resides. The melodic waves massage you into a state of acceptance and contentment. Muscles relax. Mind resolves. Dissolution isn’t such a bad thing at all. Nothing has the potential to be the most beautiful Non-thing.

Jump in, the water’s fine, it’s just a bit murky.

I’m not certain exactly what I am trying to say here. In fact, I think this has turned into a sort of diatribe itself. Must be the curmudgeon in me.  Nevertheless, who really cares? This is my blog and I create my own truth here.

April Haiku

If maple syrup

was the very blood of trees,

I’d be their vampire.

 

 

Blue carpet fibers

reaching, curling underfoot

tickle sole and soul.

 

 

Let’s try some “magic”:

place the veil over our eyes

and force us to “dream.”

 

 

A silly poet

playing a moot language game,

tapping his fingers.

 

 

“A small flame inside”

is a romantic first line;

it doesn’t work here.

 

 

“Be concise,” they say.

To me, life it too concise,

So I say, “delay!”

 

 

Breath-taking genius

has revealed itself to me

through everyone else.

A Ceiling's Perspective of a Floor.

I see you, Bear-face,

stuck in a 5” x 36” plank of wood,

Burned-Maple flames tracing the contours of

your  hirsute face.

I see you

framed by a thousand other planks of wood, a million other variegated Burned-Maple flames,

kith and kin,

a small community on my wood floor

each and every one staring right back at me,

Burned-Maple eyes

all glued to an object,

mystical,

but still only wood.

 

“Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye”

 

I see you, Bear-face,

I see you staring at me.

 

 

 

.

Making Sausage

We don’t feel very inspired as of late. We don’t feel as if the gods have breathed anything into us; they call it Theopneustos or θεόπνευστος. We call it a Pauline neologism. We are tired. We are weary, spice-less, and exhausted bags of meat.

But something in us sleeps, some grand feeling lies dormant in our sub-psyche, and it is our knowledge of this urge that creates a specific kind of flavor-profile within us. Though we are not inspired, we are still moved to exercise the faculties that we possess, so that we might cause that fantastic creature to stir, cause that mystical urge to rise up and tear, gnaw, rip, and gnash its possessor(s).

 

	1.             Combine ground meat with ingredients, mix/knead well. Taste test by cooking a small thin patty. Taste test by frying a small thin patty. Add more spices if needed at this time and remix. Taste test again if you feel it's necessary.
	2.             For bulk sausage simply form sausage patties or stuff into poly meat bags. Refrigerate fresh sausage up to a week or freeze until needed.
	3.             For breakfast sausage links load the freshly mixed meat into your Sausage Stuffer and attach the 3/8" sausage tube.
	4.             If you are using casings, slide a 22-24MM strand of sheep casing or a 22-26 MM collagen sausage casing onto the sausage tube.
	5.             Do not refrigerate the breakfast sausage mixture before you stuff it into the sausage casing as the meat will "set up" and put undo stress on your sausage stuffer. Stuff the seasoned meat into the sausage casing. The casing should be full. The more you operate the sausage stuffer the easier it becomes to determine the proper fullness. With practice you will be stuffing sausage casings like a pro. The rule of thumb "practice makes perfect" applies here.

And this, at least in part, is the cultural nature of humanity: we are bits and pieces of meat crammed, cramped, crowded, coerced, and compacted into malleable (literally) skin-like casings, waiting with much trepidation for that ultimate consequence, waiting for the inevitability of being so tightly packed, so overly stuffed, that is, we are waiting to burst. We must never forget, however, that the idea of “perfection” is irrevocably utopian; an unattainable human creation brought about by endless attempts at making sausage.

 

I’ve seen the ingredients mixed by popular psychology and new age (for lack of a better term) metaphysics. They say that “I”—that great subjectivity—am an expression of the universe. What a dumb and impossible statement. The great cooks and chefs of the past have been mixing these ingredients forever; they’ve been experimenting with various components for generations. They gave the universe its very name, and by doing so brought it into being. We have been making this type of sausage for a long time, and since we continue this tradition, since we continue to habituate our stuffing and cramming, we can say that the universe is a totally human recipe; it is an expression of us.

Wake up!

 

This is about a dream I hadCOMMA

                                                      but it was as real as real could bePERIOD

Paralyzed by the grip of unknown

                                                                    forces and laws,

pushed through the fabric of space-time,

                                                                          and swallowed black-hole-like

by an irrational fear of nothingness absolute, I was(n't).

 

Yet at the same time I was liberated by a series of questions:

 

                                                                 What’s the matterQUESTIONMARK ß this is an  immaterial question, a question intimating materiality.

                                                                       What’s the heart of the matter? ß this is a material question, a question intimating immateriality.

                                                                       Why does any of this matter matter? ß this is a ridiculous questionCOMMA

                                                        but it’s also axiomatic. ForCOMMA inherent in the very question is a recognition

of our insatiable quest for the ridiculous, and that’s a fact

                                                                                                                         PERIOD