Memoir of a Pseudo-Amnesiac: 4

As it so happened, he was wrong on one account. She was interested and she went looking for me. (Proving once more that good things come to those who wait and that luck is not made despite the egotists who insist upon the contrary.) I was found milling around my school’s fenced perimeter, hammering out the kinks of a thesis on Skinner. I did not notice her coming as I was gazing intently on the ground slightly before my feet. “You didn’t tell me your name,” was uttered without origin. Startled, I erupted with an expletive. She laughed. When I realized who had spoken, I begged her pardon. She was cucumber cool and I was pepper hot. She observed my reflexes were stellar and that keyed-up animals live longer in the wild. The natural color returned to my ears attested to subjectively by a lack of heat in that region. We exchanged pleasantries, dealing in large part with what was new in our lives. (Although neither of us knew what was “old” for the other, it is not what one asks about). Near the end of our jaunt and at her behest, we exchanged mailing addresses rather than numbers. (Hers was one of those bumpkinny addresses—numbers followed by indecipherable abbreviations followed by still more numbers—with an air of encryption about it.) It struck me as quaint and entirely fitting the unspoken code of courtship I assumed presided over inter-gender affairs in Pike County. I was thrilled and aghast—thrilled to be pursued and aghast at the necessity of requital. I insisted she write first so that I could operate within the confines of tone she established.

Her cursive handwriting was graceful and slightly disorienting. (Longhand is alive and well in needle-point country.) It made me ashamed of my chicken-scratch script and I committed to writing more deliberately thereafter. The first twenty lines consisted of preliminary getting-to-know-you questions like point of birth to be gotten out of the way and stored for future reference. Beneath them was a set of three essay questions from which to choose one, none of which were especially personal. (This was a good-natured exercise and designed, presumably, to either pander to one of my strengths or speak in terms an undergrad could understand.) I wrote on “What’s wrong with us and why? Give concrete examples.” and made a convincing argument in 500 words or less for the dilutive ramifications of data influx on us progeny of the Information Age. After three drafts and many a minute of tapping pen-to-lip, I reciprocated with a quiz of my own. I dittoed the twenty questions* and formulated a biographical inquiry. (‘Is your father always so intimidating? If so, why? If not, when not?’ ‘What do you appreciate the most about living here and what could you do without?’, and ‘What’s on your mind when business at the produce stand is slow?’) She picked #2. What she appreciated most and least were the two sides of the same coin of time. The surfeit of leisure afforded by inclement weather or the cold season was a situationally-dependent blessing or curse.

We kept the pen-pal relationship going in part because we couldn’t see each other constantly. I had school and she had a considerable set of filial duties. Plus, neither of us wanted to be the one to blame for dropping the ball, letter-wise. They became supplementary material to our face-to-face visits and hastened our introductory phase tremendously. We never spent a dime on postage. Instead, we exchanged the notes at the outset of our sessions and tucked them away in hip-or-back pocket to be read later. At some point, we started folding them into exceedingly small rectangles and devised ways of slipping them to each other in homage to mafia movies. Who began this ritual I cannot say.

She met me more than halfway since I was functionally a pedestrian. (Car repairs were not easy to come by in those parts and I, not trusting my mechanically-inclined colleagues, opted to let my Civic languish until my parents caved into desperation and had it towed.) She had access to an ancient F-100 with two gas tanks, which came in handy since there were two trips: one to and one from campus. (This is hyperbole, but not outrageously so. The truck lumbered along at 7 MPG thanks to being engineered in the good old days of cheap crude. The cargo of cement blocks which was the stuff of an often promised but never realized retaining wall at the Benson Farm did nothing for efficiency either.) The exterior was burnt orange and gold with pitted and speckled chrome bumpers. From inside, you could watch the road speed by through a growing hole in the passenger side floor board (which, I warned, was destined to become a real problem for spare change or an ill-fated cell phone). The miniscule maroon waffle texture of the bench seat’s cloth made me nostalgic for a decade when “greaser” was a caste. In lieu of air conditioning were triangular windows that pivoted on an axis and scooped up passing air at a rate that made your jowls jiggle wind tunnel-like at interstate speeds. The truck was the sort of temperamental jalopy that begged for a name. The passenger needed to be slightly ajar in order for the engine to turn over. The windshield wipers did not function without the cigarette lighter being depressed. I enjoyed these eccentricities and became more partial to it than a person should be to an artifact.

We took a lot of walks together, regardless of the season. They were our dates and my exercise. Walking is an act of penance for the consumption of rural cuisine. (Pies were as much a fixture of the dinner table as forks and knives.) Either we walked the lengths of First through Fourth Street until civilization disappeared or devolved into boarded-up houses or we strode down Route 3 until one of our sets of legs began to throb. There was a lot of pointing on these jaunts. We liked seeing the same sights.

Provided I was wearing tall enough socks, we occasionally made excursions into the family’s farmland. At dusk in the summer, you could not have a conversation over the ambulancean wail of the cicadas and katydids. An array of flora and fauna stuck to whatever cloth brushed against the tall grasses and weeds. On return, we’d retire to separate unoccupied rooms to modestly inspect for ticks scrambling towards nether regions. (This in itself shows how far I had come to making peace with nature because of her.) Once cleared by private scrutiny, we presented bare backs to each other for visual inspection of those hard to reach places. This practice was for novices like myself an emulsion of sensual and repulsive emotions. In the end, the sensual rose to the top. Removing parasites is a work of affection. (See generally: primate behavior).

This continued for months. I did not quickly ask her out (which is a phrase I’d like to avoid since “out” always struck me as a vacuous place, but is the only real prospect that fits the bill). To me, the categorization was superfluous. Giving something an official name aspired to nothing more than discouraging others from transgressing against it, not because of authentic care but authoritative diffidence. (This is why security cameras are more affective at deterring than no trespassing signs.) Principal stance aside, I did not want to rock the boat and was frightened any shift in status might land me in the sea. To her—I later learned—it was a great disappointment and a sign I was not simply bashful but altogether spineless when it counted. She had to ward off passive aggressive attacks from her ill mother nightly on account of my reticence.

I don’t know what attracted her to me. It was not charm or mysteriousness and, despite her flattery, it was not looks. (I am to Adonis what yellow is to Tuesday.) At the time, I thought it was a certain je ne sais quoi radiating from my indefatigable candor and earnestness (a trait which I both staunchly believed I possessed and completely lacked given my self-referential obliviousness). What attracted me to her is too long a list to enumerate here. Being around her was like looking at a diamond. I felt a multifaceted sentiment around her. Firstly, there was the novelty of it all. I was not one to garner attention and if I accidently happened to, I could not keep it. She was, as I have already mentioned, physically attractive and seeing her sparked textbook arousal responses. She was smart to boot and a straight-arrow, morally speaking. Exhibit A: She had been letting her hair grow out in the fall. When she exited the truck, I noted it flipped playfully above her ears. I complimented her on this, thinking it was intentionally styled. She told me to kiss off without making eye contact. Before I could be fully offended by this outburst and counter with some barb to make the situation worse, she apologized. Apologizing was easy for her, not because she had a lot of practice, but because she indulged in no delusions about what she did and was capable of. I have never met a more sober thinker. I don’t know if it was the Bible, the cows, or the lack of any sort of pollution—whatever the source, she never hid anything from anyone, including herself. It was as though the lack of pre-processed input kept her head from getting clogged up with excuses or falsehoods. She knew she was disappointed with her appearance, that she snapped at me, and that she shouldn’t have snapped at me. So she apologized.

I do not mince words. I do not say I love pasta or some much-lauded band because I don’t consider them objects of such momentous affection. I do not respond “good” or the grammatically preferable “well” when someone asks me how I am because I am almost always “fine” or worse. To be well is a rarified state of happiness/contentment/peace I am not often in. I was happy then in those first few months. I was happy to be near her, happy to see her walk towards me, happy to hear her recollections of Indian summers and creek beds and crawdads squirting backwards in crystal clear water. It was magical, not in the incredulous way a skeptic describes a conviction, but in the way a child knows fireflies—an ineffable glow both real and uncanny.

__________
* Her answers were: 1) Allison Benson, 2) 10/14/87, 3) Salina, KS, 4) 2 – Donnie (older) and Jimmy (younger), 5) Yellow, 6) grandma’s corn pudding, 7) strawberry mint sun tea, 8) lately Franny and Zooey, 9) I don’t watch much TV, 10) That’s difficult. Pet Sounds was my first –how about that? 11) Am I a sap if I say Shawshank Redemption? 12) Flint Hills, 13) no one, really, 14) yes, 15) not like Casper, no 16) when you said your name was Shit 17) when Pappy (my grandfather) died, 18) flying by a mile—what good is invisibility really? 19) Italy or Australia, 20) both half-full and half-empty if we are going to be accurate about it.

Memoir of a Pseudo-Amnesiac: 2

Within my first year, I had been to nearly every place there was to go within a three mile horizontal radius of my dormitory. The lone exception was the picturesque white chapel where the locals went to worship, marry, baptize, and bury. I was curious, but refrained from visiting as even God-fearing students kept away from Christ’s Church of the Fields (which was situated, eponymously, in cornfields). Fear of judgment from the flock there was not the cause. They were far too meek to ever rebuke strangers. The prospect of instantly becoming One of Them and never being able to leave without crippling guilt/remorse was ample disincentive. The congregation made an annual pilgrimage to our college to spread the Good News via smiles and pocket-sized green New Testaments. If you made eye contact, you invited a sales-pitch more forceful and cheery than any telemarketer’s script, which included an inquiry into contact information, and precipitated a Campus Mailbox stuffed with handwritten notes every Monday, from the third week in August to the second week in May until graduation, cursively stating, “Sorry we missed you.” Niceness can be frightening, especially to cynics. The ferocity of their tuistic sentiments was suspicious. We students surmised (wrongly in hindsight) either they (1) had ulterior motives beyond our personal salvation or (2) their motives were based on some vague idea of us and therefore without merit because they didn’t know us from Adam. A classmate of mine with a soft spot for Star Trek remarked the flock was like a nicer sect of the Borg. The analogy was not without merit (both came off as selfless, artificial, and quickly confused if sequestered individually), although the townies got a lot more sun for obvious reasons.

All this is to say I had been to the produce shanty before. (It was less than three miles away by foot.) On those visits I bought my weight in blackberries. Where I come from never had access to berries beyond the usual berry suspects (i.e., straw, blue, and rasp). A calloused (in both senses of the word) middle aged man with needles of blonde hair stiffly distending from under his John Deere cap kept to the shadows like a brown recluse. His stubble was so thick you could have struck a match on his chin. He did not look like a man who would risk his goods to the honor’s system of many roadside stands. It was a cash-only sort of place with a squeaky tin box once forged to hold military wares standing in for a vault. He never gave me exact change. He capriciously over-or-undercharged me to the nearest dollar as though he was unwilling to trifle with coins. I resolved to not inquire into this practice out of an unconfirmed (but not unfounded) suspicion there was a shotgun on the premises. Later I learned this man was her father. He sired four children and hailed from one of those identical exurban towns, neither small nor large, a traveler drives through fifty times while sojourning across the American Middle West. While on tour with the Army, he was bitten by the gambling bug. After inheriting a forlorn family farm by casting lots with his two brothers, this troubled man kept himself honest by only chancing the coins he acquired through the farm’s revenue. (He drove into the City to get his fix, the cost of gas alone typically necessitating a net loss for the night prior to any lever-pulling or drink specials.)

It was about the time the sugar snap peas started sprouting fast and furious that I definitely recall getting to know her specifically. On approach, I was shocked to see a young woman my approximate age standing in for the mulish older man. She was not dressed in flannel and her shirt was not tied above the navel. She was wearing the townie’s well-practiced look suggestive of either vacancy or concentration. (Statues commonly have the same ambivalent stare.) Her closely cropped hair made me think I had seen her before, but I doubt I could have placed when or where.

Having spied her at thirty paces, I had time to compose myself. I believed composure was the gateway to sexiness, a principle I’d likely gleaned from girl’s middle school locker posters of James Dean or Johnny Depp scowling. (Sex appeal could also have been the effect of black and white photography, an effect which I could not achieve in living color.) I tried to look through everything I saw as though nothing could really hold my interest. I blinked a few times at the bushel of russet potatoes. I was trying to push mystery out of my pores. (It had not yet occurred to me this ‘putting on’ forbade women from taking a genuine interest in me.) I went back and forth about whether or not I should even buy anything. Would it betray my disaffection? Would it be insulting not to? All the while I felt her eyes on me. I do this often, feel like I’m the center of everyone’s attention. This is not unusual among humans. My high school psychology textbook detailed how paranoid symptomatology included thinking that any laughter within earshot was at one’s expense. As I never entertained other, more outlandish propositions (i.e., people following me) I never qualified for a medical diagnosis of paranoia. Still, this perspective is consistent and not without side-effects. I call it the evil twin of narcissism because I have not found a name for it other than despair, which is entirely too dramatic most of the time.

Because I did not have access to a kitchen or cooking apparatuses, I was limited to fruits and vegetables requiring no more preparation than cutting and/or the application of dips/dressings. (I did have a Swiss Army Knife courtesy of an uncle and two complete place settings courtesy of the cafeteria.) I decided the best course to take was a modest purchase, which seemed to split the difference between apathy and intrigue. I placed my choice of Cameo apples and broccoli onto the wooden crates that doubled as counter space. She weighed them. I did not make eye contact. I paid attention to her hands. She had a few wisps of bleached hair on skin between her knuckles. Her fingernails were trimmed and unpainted. There were no freckles. I could not find a scar on either. I remember this because I assumed living her sort of life must have involved cuts, breaks, and/or other miscellaneous mangling. I concluded she must have keen control of her body. There was daydreaming. While I surveyed the countertop and what was on it, she multiplied the weights by their corresponding prices and added the two. I was staring into the stippled green surface of the broccoli when she told me the total ($4.50). It occurred to me this was an excellent opportunity. I wanted her to take a shine to me and thought flattery would make inroads to that end. (Had I the presence of mind to think reflexively and reverse the roles, I would have discerned the malignancy of cash.) After less than a moment’s consideration, I slid a $10 bill across the surface that was not conducive to sliding. I gathered my purchases and rotated away from her. (Offering women money is an ice-breaker, but after it’s been broken by that device you realize the ice kept you from drifting further away rather than being apart.)

Instead of thinking me gallant, she thought me hard of hearing. She called—not hollered—after me and clarified the price. My next move could either have been feigning miscommunication or trying to explain the balance of the payment was for her benefit. Our eyes met and it frightened me. I felt shackled. “Four-fifty” does not sound like “ten.” Knowing that “Keep the change,” was entirely too cliché for our situation, I simply said, “Keep it.” She looked bewildered. (Note: there are no tip jars in produce stands.) I left. Gravel undeniably scattered behind me at the rate of a moderate pace. I didn’t stop. My forehead was starting to glisten with liquefied anxiety. She did not command me to stop; she gripped my shoulder. It could not be ignored. I made an about-face.

“My name is Allison.”

Those were the first words she said to me outside of a transactional context. They were disarming and snapped me out of the trance I was in. It was her first act of mercy. She was not interested in getting to the bottom of what had transpired. She wanted me to know who she was (or at least start to). As someone who was generally backwards, I appreciated her forwardness. Interactions are not games and I wish I hadn’t spent so much of my youth thinking they were. She took my hand, turned it palm up, and deposited a $5 bill and two quarters. I am certain I apologized without saying “sorry.” She smiled and I stared into the distance to the side of her face. The landscape presented like a solidified ocean. There were no impediments to the horizon. Nubby rows of soybeans converged at a vanishing point in the cloudless bleached blue sky. We stood there for less than thirty seconds in relative quiet. Crickets and grasshoppers provided the soundtrack. I don’t know what she was thinking. I didn’t ask any questions. Despite appearances, I am not loquacious in person. I probably nodded and turned away again.

Memoir of a Pseudo-Amnesiac

My memory is not the greatest. I thoroughly fail personal history. I am essentially anachronistic, although not by choice. I am tangential. If I had to guess, I’d blame the lines between distinct times for my confusion. I am a cartographer of ideas [although this (pre)occupation paradoxically disorients me]. I think in associations. One idea leads to another of itself. For instance, I confound Mays for Septembers (they’re both tepid) and 1999 with 2003 (they’re both distant). This trait, a thematic bend of mind, is advantageous for writing term papers and undertaking endless conversations at coffee shops, but it does nothing for a sense of self. It scatters you.

I am an alumnus of a self-contained-and-sustaining college on the perimeter of a town (you won’t recognize the name, so I’ll spare you) so small the mayor doubled as the lone medical doctor and had ample time to wear both hats. There was one grocer, one gas station, two functioning restaurants (one of which was an annex to the gas station and specialized in apathetically prepared 6” and 12” long sandwiches), and zero movie theaters, video rental kiosks, or over-the-air television signals. Parents (mine included) liked to deposit their young-and-impressionable freshmen-to-be in this monasterial enclave with its exhaustive rules and regulations as a way to mitigate coed temptation. The college, which liberally embellished all of its pamphlets and promotional material with the term ‘Judeo-Christian values’ and glossy spreads of students supine against pin oak trees, cracked books in laps, capitalized on parental paranoia. [Psychological foresight on the part of parents would have predicted the futility of this move. The cautiously overseen matriculations’ macroeffect was the conglomeration of three hundred repressed-and-antsy young men and women into close quarters with nothing better to do (besides homework) than devise means of infiltrating forbidden places, fornicating, and otherwise carousing. It turns out debauchery finds a way.] I met her down the road from this place.

Our first encounter was at the grocery store [the ‘Midtowne IGA’ I think (although it would have passed for up-or-downtown(e?) as well, given the town’s size)]. I know when we first met because she told on me on a few separate occasions once we were considered an item. The topic of first meetings is in the ice-breaking top five and I, as her eventual long-term beau, could not afford to stutter or mumble through an unprepared spiel in a town like that without igniting rumors this College Boy thing was no good. Without her assistance, I would likely have thought our third or fourth meeting was actually our first since they were more substantial.

I was buying something healthy and boring like plain yogurt or a pound of walnuts, which in the land of red meat and things fried was the nutritional apex of stocked items. She told me later she had made mental note of my purchase (“What college kid buys that?”) and how attractive I was in my tight T-shirt and long hair. (I had no muscles, mind you, beyond what is physiologically necessary to carry, lift, pull, and push my own weight.) She was behind me in line at the checkout. I gave her one of those over the shoulder glances that surveys a person’s upper torso in maybe half a second. (I’m being honest here. Please forgive my ogling. I was callow.) I don’t remember the specifics of the sight other than she was “in shape,” had short hair for a woman, and, judging from the pale band of skin wrapping slightly below her deltoids, tanned in the old-fashioned way. I found her, then, triply intimidating. I wouldn’t have said anything to her. I probably smirked in her direction as I brought the look to a close. Smirks were the deepest mode of communication I felt comfortable offering unknown and/or attractive women at the time. [Although I was a habitual looker, I knew women didn’t appreciate the looking, generally—and nearby men, who could very well be with those looked at women, really don’t appreciate the looking either, generally—so I tried to keep everything respectful beyond the impulsive looking itself. I kept my face vacant and innocent. I refrained from lip-licking, winking, or anything else I thought could be construed as a come-on, lewd, or otherwise aggressive. I tried to give this all a casual air, as though what I was (mildly) interested in was some other proximal object on a display.] I doubt I even gave her the opportunity to smile back. Whatever she bought, it wasn’t much either. Her arms were at her sides. In that town, you spread your trips to the grocery store out because it was something to do. Groceries were an event. I paid and gently exited, trying not to overly disturb the cowbell tethered to the crossbar of the entrance/exit door (which, when disturbed, made both a dreadfully clatter and me nervous).

By that account, our relationship had the unassuming origin story most real relationships have. There were no butterflies or alluring one-liners, just her wondering about my health-conscious food choice and me giving her a once-over and leaving it at that. I don’t even remember it well. Like so much of what shapes us, it attains the quality of importance only in hindsight.

Since I am committed to a great deal of candor here, I will not pretend to know the dates of our second or third meeting either. I do know the locations of those meetings, however. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she managed a faded produce shanty (a word which I hope conjures images of dried and crackling planks of wood, wind-tattered tablecloths, and prices on torn pieces of cardboard scribbled with a thick black marker) conveniently located at the crux of the town’s main drag and highway exit. (My course load was more manageable the second semester of my sophomore year. I could afford the luxury of adventure on Tuesdays and Thursdays.) It was at this shanty I learned her name was Allison. She was a local (a.k.a., townie), which would explain why I had never noticed her on campus or in one of the forbidden places mentioned above.

Before I get too far, our story was not some sort of City Boy meets Country Girl tale. She did not wrap her arms around me and teach me how to milk a cow and I did not teach her about motorized carriages and the wonders of adding machines. I lack the heart and the stomach to be on such intimate terms with a lactating bovine. And, although she was sheltered twice over—being both from a rural area and being lackadaisically home-schooled—she was an autodidact. Her family’s library was not anemic thanks to her grandfather. Pappy, as he was honestly referred to, was swindled into a subscription throughout the 1970s for hardback Classics from a traveling salesman (who must have been lost or in a bad, bad way). Plus, her family paid out the nose to receive the internet via satellite since 1999, a godsend for those drab winter evenings that otherwise were filled with bickering and making jam to pass the time. I can only assume they knew about the existence of the internet from an encounter with her brazen uncle who liked to flaunt his relative wealth via telephone bimonthly. He ‘got out of Dodge’ on a wrestling scholarship in ’82 and landed a job lifting heavy things for a truck parts distributor in a city famous for its truck parts.

Overheard at a Park

(For a newer draft of this story, click here.)

Parking Lot

[Doors slamming]

“The sun!”

“Yep.”

“What a great day!”

“Yeah, really. It’s good to be outside. Feels like it’s been a year since it was warm enough to get out.”

[Audible deep-breathing]

“I heard it’s going to rain on Friday.”

“April showers bring May flowers.”

“Uh-huh.”

Basketball Court

[Ball bouncing]

 “You got nothin!”

[Sneaker squeaking]

“Go on!... Get that weak stuff outta here!”

 [Ball bouncing]

 [Metalic clang]

“I told ya son! Nothin!”

“Would you shut up already, man?!”

“What? I was just havin a little fun. Chill. It’s just a game dude.”

[Ball bouncing]

“Whatever.”

[Ball bouncing]

“Get ready, fool! Here it comes! You ready for it?”

[Ball bouncing]

[Grunting]

[Swish]

“Hah ha! 20-12! That’s game, sucker.”

“I said shut the fuck up, man! Just get over it already.”

Park Bench

“Such language. In public no less. There’s children around for Pete’s sake.”

“Oh come on now, Ruth. They’re just having a little fun.”

“A foul mouth is no fun at all. ‘A fool’s mouth is his undoing.’”

“Here we go…”

“What? You don’t agree?”

Public Restroom

“Guys, guys! seriously shut up! They’re going to hear us.”

[Suppressed laughing]

“Go on, dude. Do it already.”

“I will. I will. Just gimme some space, alright? Back up wouldya?”

“He’s not gonna.”

“Nah. Let’s leave em.”

“Just gimme a second, willya? Just give it to me already. Who’s gotta light?”

[Denim rustling]

“Give to me. I’ll do it… So I’ll light it and then we all walk outta here very casual in different directions one after the other. We’ve got probably like 15 seconds. We’ll keep walking till it goes and then we’ll take off like in different directions.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t care.”

“Why are we doing this, again?”

“Shut up, Tim. Does it matter? Jeez. Calm down.”

Picnic Table

[Birds chirping]

“Who do you think you are?”

“What? You mean like rhetorically?”

“No. Literally. Who do you think you are?”

“Uh…”

“Don’t you know?”

“Not exactly, no.”

[Silence]

“ I’m Ted.”

“What?... That’s it? You can’t be serious, Ted.”

“Well, who are you smart guy?”

“I read the other day that you are what you do. Makes sense to me.”

“Where’d you read that?”

“An article about Heidegger. Martin. There’s a uh new book coming about him or something. Maybe a new 

translation.”

“Wasn’t he a Nazi?”

“He supported the nationalist party way back when, but that’s beside the point.”

“Yeah. So ‘you are what you do’ huh? Sounds American, not German.  Didn’t Batman say that in the Dark 

Knight? Or was it Batman begins? Wait… it was Rachael. She sorta scolded him with it.  But uh yeah if it’s true… I um guess that makes you raising broad questions.”

 “Um, no. There’s—”

“Sounds Native American. Raising Broad Questions.”

[Trees rustling.]

“...Okay. As I was saying… there’s more to it of course than what you’re doing at the moment the question 

was asked. Is asked.”

“So, what is it? Like everything you’ve done? Ever? That’s who you are?”

“That’s what I think he was saying. Said.”

“Weak.”

“Less weak than ‘Ted’.”

“Well I’m sorry if I didn’t have it all formulated going into it. You definitely caught me off guard. It’s a tough 

question. It’s not like I haven’t given it any thought. It seems like the kind of question that’s gonna take more than a sentence or two.”

“Yeah.”

[Soda slurping]

“I disagree, though, with the idea of the definition, that you are what you do.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s uh arbitrary. Like names are. The name thing was a joke by the way. Of course I’m not just Ted and you’re not just raising questions and all the other acts you’ve done… They aren’t irrelevant, just inadequate.”

[Dog barking. Owner scolding.]

“Arbitrary? Aren’t all definitions arbitrary kinda by definition? I mean, they’re all line-drawing? That’s what 

they do. They distinguish something from its surroundings. Outline it. Set it apart. I don’t think that’s reason to stop defining, though.”

“Yeah but it doesn’t have to be arbitrary. Sometimes it fits. It’s um not fitting, but uh…well, yeah, fitting’s fine. Because some things are simple and definitions can outline simple stuff.”

“So a person’s identity is complex. Does that mean we can’t describe it? Plenty is complex.”

“You didn’t say ‘describe’. You asked me who I was. That’s like all of me, right? That’s goin to take more than a description. Height, weight, and hair color is a description. Who I am is like that and a whole bunch of other stuff, like all these roles I have and where I’ve been and where I’d like to go and on and on.”

“Well, I don’t see it’s any more arbitrary than any other definition. That’s how we think. Definitions make stuff intelligible. They’re like the raw materials we build with.”

“It’s all um behaviorist, don’t you think? Actions—what you do—are done out there in the world right? so your identity is in large part public er could be public, visible. Doesn’t that strike you as a little…reductive?”

[Metal scraping. Child’s crying. Mother reassuring.]

“Poor girl.”

“Yeah, she’s gonna have some scabs after that. At least she’s got a helmet.”

“Yeah. Moms like those.”

“Reductive you were saying…”

“Right. That doesn’t take into account the private goings-on. I mean, that’s a big part of it, who you are. What’s not seen or acted on at all, directly, what’s just inside you. Not like secrets or something, I mean like everything that goes unseen and unsaid… It’s not like you’re ‘doing’ any of those things and yet they are you or uh a part of you.”

 “Eh. I don’t know. What you do is like what you’re most invested in. You actually making it happen, bringing it into existence. Every action is basically creation. That’s a big deal, creating. So a by-prduct of all of this creating is you make yourself, too. And I don’t think he was pushing for something explicit, like formulated into some sort of all-encompassing proposition. Private goings-on…those are actions, too, so they’d be included.”

“They aren’t all actions, what’s internal. Some of them are like um states or modes. Like a mood. A mood isn’t an action. You don’t ‘do’ happy or sad or pissed or whatever. Those have still got to be a part of you though. So you’re—we are—actions and states...at least”

“I think we’re—”

“And bodies, too. We are embodied and we don’t ‘do’ our bodies. At least I don’t”

“Har har. Stay on topic.”

“Well there’s at least two significant things, truths, ‘you are what you do’ doesn’t take into account.”

“We’ve a bunch of uninteresting ‘truths’ or ‘facts’ about us, too. You want those in your definition? You want to include the brand of shoes you wore in fifth grade or the um number of teeth you’ve had pulled? Come on. To include anything that could be predicated of you for your whole life is a uh bit silly, don’t you think?”

“No. Being is rich, Rob. I’m not ready to take a machete to it for the sake of discussion.”

“Hmph.”

[Birds chirping]

“Well, I think he Heidegger was talking about something more fundamental than what you’re getting at. 

Essence, ya know? Like the basic ontologically stuff that everything else cakes on top of. I hear what you’re saying, but uh…you’re forfeiting the game.”

“What game is that?”

“The game of making sense of the world and life. The game of flexing your brain. The whole philosophical enterprise.”

[Snickering] “That’s a bit of an overstatement.”

“No, Ted, I don’t think it is. I mean to admit that personal identity is unknowable, not just unknown, but totally unknowable because the list would be too long or something—which is what  you’ve been saying, right?—where does that sort of thinking end? I can’t imagine it’s limited to this one question.”

“I didn’t say it was unknowable. Just not that easy. It requires more subtlety.”

“Subtlety. Okay. So if I give you, what? a week? You’ll have a contrary formulation, some other proposition to state who we are?”

“Well shit, Rob. I don’t have a timetable for you. I don’t know if I’d ever be up to the task. I’m not sure I’m that smart.”

“Just smart enough to be a critic.”

“Jeez I had no idea I’d burst such a bubble being honest.”

“Yeah…well… You have to admit it’s an important issue, seriously crucial. I sure as hell would like to know and… Forget it.”

[Trees rustling]

[Soda slurping]

Playground

[Metallic creaking]

 “Higher!”

[Cloth fluttering]

“Higher, daddy! Higher!”

[Metallic creaking]

“If I push you any higher, you’re going to flip over the bar, crazy girl.”

[Giggling] “I don’t care! Higher! Higher!”

***

[Pebbles pattering]

“Woah!”

[Thud]

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“I want off! Let me off!”

[Children laughing]

[Pebbles pattering]

“Faster! Faster!”

 “Stop it! I want to get off!”

“Aaaaaaaheeeee!”

[Thud]

“Faster!”

[Pebbles pattering]

Paved trail

“Hello? Can you hear me? Cheryl? Yeah I’m sorry I’m not good with this earpiece thing yet. Hello?”

[Wheels grinding]

“Okay. Good. I swear this is like only the second time I’ve used it. I’ve had it for like a year. I always forget about it. But yes, I’ve been fine. Maddie’s been a little cranky today. I thought I’d get out and take her for a walk.”

[Wheels grinding]

“Oh yeah. Really nice out. Have to enjoy it while it lasts. I think the weatherman said it would rain tomorrow morning.”

[Wheels grinding]

“Uh…not much. I uh had some time for myself on Tuesday. Greg was sweet and took a half-day just ‘cause. I hadn’t been alone in months it seems like.”

[Woman sneezing.]

“Bleh. Excuse me. Spring has sprung I guess. What’d you say, though?”

[Wheels grinding]

“Nothing big. I went to this bookshop down the street. I browsed a little but I couldn’t get into anything, you know? I just sat down in this big cushy armchair and kinda watched people go by. I zoned out. Do you ever do that, like just kinda…float?”

[Children laughing distantly]

“I just stared out the storefront windows and like lost it. It sorta scared me, my lack of uh interest. I didn’t cry or anything but I was so exhausted. I had a hard time getting up. I wanted to go home but I didn’t at the same time. I don’t know.”

[Child’s babbling]

“That’s a squirrel, Maddie. Skwir-rul. Skwir-rul.”

[Wheels griding]

“No, Cheryl. I’m fine. Nothing big. Things with Greg have been a little uh…lifeless lately. Maybe it’s just me, though. I don’t know. It’s just like kinda like an office or something at home. Like a workplace atmosphere I think. We kinda go through the motions and exchange pleasantries, ‘Mornin’ Sam.’ ‘Mornin’ Frank.’ water-cooler type stuff, but we like don’t really talk anymore. It’s like everything’s been said, I don’t even know what I could offer at this point really, I feel like I’m regressing back to like toddlerhood. But yes, we don’t really talk and now we kinda just have to do now, like there’s nothing left to say so we just run these laps every day. I’m just very tired and overly—”

[Birds chirping]

“What? No. I don’t know. A few weeks.”

***

 “So.”

[Shoe scuffing]

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a younger brother. He’s twelve.”

“That’s nice. Do you two get along?”

“Sorta but he’s weird. What about you?”

“Nope. I’m an only child.”

“Lucky.”

“I guess.”

[Trees rustling]

“It’s not all that lucky.”

“How’s that? I’d think it’d be the best. You don’t have to watch anybody whenever your parents want to go out. That’s a total drain. Plus like when I’m around the house I’m like bothered all the freakin time. But I can’t go out whenever I want to because of Donny—my brother’s Donny. And my brother’s into this like fantasy video game type thing, not just into but like absolutely um absorbed like united with it. He’s like nuts about it. All of his friends run home from school and play it together online, you know, in their own rooms, and like scream at each other into these headset things. Every day he throws a total fit about only getting like three hours to play it every day, which they don’t keep track of at all, BTW. It’s a big hassle because he’s either screaming about the game or screaming about not being able to play the game. Plus he does this super annoying thing where he like doesn’t flush the toilet. Seriously ever. We share a bathroom and the kid never flushes the freakin toilet. He’s twelve. He knows how it works in there. But he’s in such a rush to get back to the game because there’s apparently no like ‘pause’ or anything and whenever you’re away people can come up to you and beat you or take your points or magic potion or whatever it is they take. It’s a constant headache around the house. We share the bathroom and I don’t even go in there anymore. I use my parents’, which they aren’t too happy about of course because you know, it’s theirs or whatever and ‘I’ve got my own’, which I don’t though really because mine is full of little brother mess.”

“Wow. That stinks.”

“Yeah.”

[Trees rustling]

“I guess when you put it that way its got its drawbacks. But it keeps things interesting, you know. Never a dull moment at least.”

“I’d rather have a dull moment or two. It’s a real hassle.”

“I’ve had plenty of those. They’re nothing you’d be interested in. I bet your brother likes you and I bet you help keep him in line like a big sister does. That’s a good thing to do. I just sit in a dark room on a computer listening to music and wishing something would happen.”

“Aw. Well, hey, something did happen!”

“Huh?”

“You’re at the park with me. Duh.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s something all right.”

“I’m glad we’re at the park.”

“Yeah me too.”

[Distant yelling]

“I’m sorta surprised I asked you.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before. I’m shy.”

“That’s sweet.”

 “Thanks for coming.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

[Dog barking]

Lightness

June 4, 2009

Why is Christ's yoke light? Why is not His yoke burdensome as a plow's yoke is to an ox?

Because it is made of love. All that love requires is requital. Love admits of no proof. It cannot be matched except with reciprocation.

A plow's yoke restricts the desired movements of the ox. It wishes to escape, but remains hindered. The yoke is affective because it limits freedom.

Christ's yoke propels the desired movements of an individual. She wishes to be alive, and is given life. The yoke is affective because it enhances freedom.

What is life? It is the given. It is the ontos of every individual. Life is basic. It is contemporaneous with her existence, which is prior to her consciousness. Life is the grounding. It resists definition. It is a mystery. Its trappings can be described, but it remains ineffable.

The living individual can judge it--some judge it a gift and others a burden. Regardless, within every living individual there is a desire to persist--to continue to live. Even with those who take their lives, there is doubt somewhere in the mind and resistance somewhere in the body.

To be kept from evil is to at once have less freedom-as-option and more freedom-as-good. Freedom-as-option is valueless; it is increased by the quantity of possibilities. Freedom-as-good is valueful; it is increased by the quality of possibilities. Freedom-as-option has no end; the well of possibilities is without bottom. Freedom-as-good has one end--itself, the Good.

Love is life's gravity. Love gives life coherence, structure, and integrity. Unalloyed love is constant, eternal, and thereby mysterious.

Love is the name for the desire of a good. Love admits of gradations; good is diversely manifest. Pure love is simple; the greatest good is unified. Both are one. The former is one in one; the latter is one in many. The movement of love is always the same; the effects of good are always the same.

Everything that is good is related to life. Every good ought to be related to with love by the living individual. Christ is the point of convergence between the subject (individual), the object (good), the action (love), and the setting (life).

The relation between life and freedom: the former is a necessary condition of the latter. Freedom-as-option is the sort of freedom available to sub-rational animals. With rationality, a person has an ability to recognize a good. With practical rationality, a person has an ability to successfully pursue a good. When freedom is construed as a good in itself, it is good to the extent that it nourishes life.

Life admits of quality (in normative terms) and quantity (in numerical terms). The former relates to freedom-as-good. The latter relates to freedom-as-option.

The quality of life is more valuable than the quantity of life. Eternal life is the point of convergence between the two. Christ confers the greatest quality (reunion with God) and greatest quantity (eternity).

Purity

March 27, 2009

Love is not quantifiable. We are confused when we ask, 'how much do you love me?'

Love is only qualifiable. It is distinguished by its purity. The more pure the love, the more rare. The more apt question is: 'how well do you love me?'

Love is often a component of an alloyed relation. 1 part sensuality, 1 part self-righteousness, and 1 part love, for instance, is a common cocktail. The first part involves bodily ownership of the other, the second part involves self-love redirected through the lens of the other (insofar as the mirror is less impressive than what it reflects), and the third part involves acceptance of the incomprehensibility of the other and the desire for its improvement.

The muddle that is human relations is a consequence of their capacity for diversity. When one dissects the bond between two individuals, one oftentimes finds contrapurposive tendencies (such as that of possession of sensuality and the disinterestedness of love seen above).

Beginings 3

September 01, 2008

Bridges
What I long for most is to build bridges between souls. Leaving the question of what is a soul behind for its lack of relevance (after all, need we say more than that it is the totality of everything incorporeal of every individual?), what is a bridge and how is it built?

A bridge is a relation between two people. Specifically, in its perfection, it is the avenue across which all contents that are within a person and are effable may travel. This bridge is the road that transports our most hidden shames, keenly felt sentiments, and most light, daily trifles.

Describing its function says something of its raison d'entre. Bridges are constructed in order to relieve the pressure of being the only self to experience one's self. Bleakness and hopelessness are the consequences of the intimations of isolation. It is not enough to be alone. True, some people may desire isolation, but that is from an over/under-estimation of oneself. Either one thinks one is so valuable that sharing oneself with another would be tantamount to being robbed or one is so convinced of one's own depravity that the thought of another knowing one's state is stultifyingly frightening. When people have an awareness (a cognitive and conative mixture) of what their soul contains, then there is a necessary yearning outward. We wish to be thanked for what is good in us and forgiven for what is bad. Every individual presents a possible disciple and confessor to every other individual.

How does this relation actualize? Through active transparency and engaged viewing on the part of both parties. Transparency is the state of being bare to another, of volunteering as much information about one's self as appropriate (where appropriateness is defined by the maximum amount possible while allowing for full transparency to be enacted by the other). Viewing consists of turning one's attention to the other in such a way that one takes in what is volunteered and calls for other information that is germane to forming the most accurate picture of the other as possible. The limits of possibility are most often proscribed by one's finitude and the constraints of language. Space and time physically limit bridges (bodies can only get so near and for so long); language incorporeally limits bridges (words clip reality).

The nature of the soul also places restrictions on bridges. Anyone who soberly assesses the limitations of one's self-knowledge can see how other knowledge becomes an all-the-more-tenuous affair. Mercifully, knowledge in this instance is a means rather than an end. The end is the establishment of a relation between two individuals; the exchanging of words and actions and the time spent in proximity are all ways of establishing such a relation. The relation involves aspects that are both effable and ineffable and thus involve knowledge that can be explicated and an awareness that outstrips description. Love is the name usually ascribed to this mixture of the cognitive and conative. So, what I long for most is love.

September 06, 2008

Forgiveness
What are the consequences of not forgiving wrongs--addressed at either ourselves or another? First, we grab hold of justice. Injury is done to us, so we injure others through withholding forgivness and establishing enmity. Second, we lay claim to self-righteousness (that is, when we are not the one who wronged ourselves--although self-righteousness may happen here as well via personal bifurcation, (e.g., the good part and the bad part of the self). In comparison with the wrong-doer, we are elevated. We are above doing evil. We were victimized and seek rightful retribution. Third, we beckon others' sympathy. Through being indignant, others recognize our prior injury. Others, thus, yearn to alleviate our suffering.

All of these reasons for opting for antagonism are, at bottom, selfish. Given what I have already written about the bankruptcy of self-sufficiency, it follows that such reasons will not suffice for justifying the response.

What of its opposite, then? What are the consequences of forgiving wrongs? Most threateningly, the wrong doer may fail to learn his lesson because he never feels the sting of retribution. Most beneficially, if the forgiveness is genuine, then we are freed from the nagging burdens of being wronged (of continual suffering over the wrong that perpetuates the need for antagonism). In itself, retribution can bring with it new pain, as the conscience recognizes the new wrong being committed (acting unloving towards a fellow). By the same faculty (if still operative in the wrong doing), an even greater sting than retribution may be inflicted: the lashing of humiliation. The wrong-doer is humbled by receiving mercy, which in itself transcends desserts. The conscientious wrong-doer can thus see beyond fairness into love. Any glimpses thereof are assured to effect more change than the greatest retribution because it speaks to the whole of the person as only love can.

September 07, 2008

What it is to be boring
For years, I have described myself as boring. What is it to be boring? Boring is a way of living relative to the exciting way. When asked, "what is good?" the boring person will say, "the same thing all the time," and the exciting person will say, "a new thing at new times."

How does my boringness manifest itself? I like oatmeal. When I say this, I mean that I could eat oatmeal for breakfast every day of my life. I could come to my bowl every morning and enjoy it just the same. If it tasted good yesterday, it must taste good today (because the taste has stayed the same). To an exciting person, oatmeal may be good on a Monday morning, but to have it the following Tuesday is to overplay oatmeal's hand. The goodness has been drained of it. Perhaps it will be replenished by next Tuesday, but oatmeal ought to be avoided until then.

Though a trivial example, it speaks to the fundamental quality of the person of solidity (those who are boring to those who are the people of fluidity). Solidity and fluidity are at loggerheads; they are the antagonists in a battle between two sorts of inertia.

An argument between solidity and fluidity:
1: "I have had enough damned oatmeal!"
2: "Is it too hot?"
1: "No, the temperature is fine."
2: "Is there not enough cinnamon and molasses in it?"
1: "No, it tastes the same as it always does."
2: "Then what's the problem?"
1: "That is exactly the problem."
2: "But I thought it was the way you liked it. You have told me before you liked it."
1: "I'm sure I did, and I meant it. But oatmeal every day?! That is ridiculous! People need variety. How many breakfast cereals are there? Couldn't you bear to have some frosted flakes this morning?"
2: "Well, I could. But I don't see the point. I've found what I like and I'm staying with it."
1: "Haven't you heard of the phrase, 'too much of a good thing'?"
2: "Yes and it has always struck me as misguided. If something is good, it can never not be good."
1: "That's ridiculous; there's a time and place for everything. Sometimes oatmeal is good and sometimes it isn't."
2: "If, as you have admitted, the oatmeal has remained the same as it always has, and once it was good and now it is not, then what has changed?"
1: "I don't follow you. What are you getting at?"
2: "Well, there are two parts of this equation: the oatmeal and you. The oatmeal has remained constant, but now the outcome is bad rather than good. So, it is you that has changed."
1: "So?"
2: "So, goodness changes according to your fancy. Are you fine with that?"
1: "Yes, how could it be any other way?"
2: "If that's the way it really is, I don't know why I'm trying to be a good person."
1: "I thought we were talking about breakfast here."
2: "But it's all related, can't you see? There's reality and there's you and truth is the interaction between you and reality when approached rightly. But, the way you approach it and indeed, the way you think it has to be approached, is so bleak. You weight your side of the equation to heavily. You say that something as weighty as goodness is completely altered by the way you feel about something at different times. You think that goodness is contextual, not that we ourselves are contextualized, but that truth is, at its core, relative to you. So everyone has their own truth; maybe some overlap and others don't. But none is privileged, not even theoretically."
1: "That's right. Truth isn't something that just floats out there. It changes with us because truth is true through us. So yes, sometimes oatmeal is good and sometimes oatmeal is bad. Sometimes being a good person means loving someone and sometimes it means hating someone. It all depends on you and what it is for you to be a good person."
2: "I don't think people are that powerful that they can make their own truth. I think reality ought to have more weight if either side of the balance must."

Do I eat oatmeal everyday? No, of course not. But, in theory, I could. I assent to the proposition that something that is good once is always good. (Note: by 'good' I mean that which fulfills a thing's proper function. Food, for instance, is supposed to taste good and be appropriately nutritive. Oatmeal fulfills both of those criterion.) I thus deny that things get essentially stale which were once fresh.

October 11, 2008

Reminder to Self
There is no way to access justification with any sort of finality. There is no way to answer the question, "why do you do that?" to the point of offering an assurance of righteousness. It is inconceivable of what would be like. At most we can offer subjective convictions ("because I like it," "because I think it is right," "because I think it is good," etc.) but the subjective explanations are not sufficient to meet the demands of objectivity.

Need we have more? Need we be able to stand in the light of certitude in regards to the warrants of our actions? No. "Ought therefore can," may logically give birth to "cannot therefore ought not." The subjective explanations must suffice for ourselves. We bring them with us to our death. We offer them up as a proposal. Every person's life is a proposition. "This is the way one acts righteously," one implies by every action.

What of the person who does not live without awareness of this implication? What of the person who denies it? Personal dissonance and loss of integrity takes place, although it may sneaking under consciousness. Perhaps it is the cause of the hollowness of so many moments of life, of boredom, of consistent and inexplicable dissatisfaction (which is really only unconsidered dissatisfaction).

October 11, 2008 - A basic metaphysical intimation: the notion of justice as love. - Where could we derive justice from? Not only from nature. Nature is not gracious. It is said, rightly, that "she gives life like a mother, but loves as a step-mother." Spending any time in nature, and opening yourself to it, will give you no premonitions of justice. True enough, she supplies the requisites for life. She gives sweetness in the taste of an orange or the sight of a bird's plumage. So, too, does she give the requisites for death. She gives the bitterness in the taste of hemlock and the sight of a chasm. And all with caprice, always without interest.

From where do desserts enter? If one had only a natural awareness, there would be no "oughts." There would be only "ares." Man, on a natural interpretation, ought not live. He simply does live. Man, on a natural interpretation, ought not die. He simply dies. From where, then, does a person draw the inspiration to say, "you should not have treated me so?"

Nature is both fair and unfair. Fair insofar as she is impartial and unfair insofar as she does not love. Her disinterestedness is the germ of our notion of lawfulness and the germ of our yearning to be loved. We know that we ought rationally to accept her indifference, but we feel the lack of her embrace as a refusal to grant the justice in appropriation without dissipation that is the essence of love. But is such justice justice at all? Is not clemency more just than the strictest adherence to the law? Is not this our inkling of the greatness of the hidden amidst the fairness of the brute world? And what is the hidden and how can we clarify this inkling? How can we live by it and perpetuate it?

October 30, 2008 - I would like to make a plea for everyone to practice a certain form of kindness. It requires little effort. It is, at its least, hardly more than nothing.

When someone addresses you, would you please respond? Be it as insignificant as a casual "hello," or as meaningful as long-winded voice-mail--could you please nod slightly or call back to say simply, "no comment,"?

Ignoring a person is to refuse to grant them existence. We exist to such a large degree in the consciousness of others. If I am refused signs of being perceived by others, how am I to know I am even here? Oh--how you have made me nothing! Could you not must the strength to sigh at a person?!

Apathy is the opposite of love. Hatred still involves interest in an object/subject. Apathy, though, is a sort of disinterestedness. Kant argued that the aesthetic experience of beauty was marked by disinterestedness in the object. Unlike most objects we come across, the beautiful object is for us desired for itself. We do not conceive of putting a painting (or lily) to use. It is simply enough to be in its presence. If we grant him that this is true for at least some beautiful objects, it follows that disinterestedness is not an evil in itself. In the case of aesthetic experiences, it is a recognition of an intrinsic good, an end-in-itself. And here we run into the source of the wantonness in acts of ignoring: it is a refusal to recognize an intrinsic good (the individual person). To not respond is to propose the person is of no use. The inconvenience of responding is displeasing enough that it outweighs the responsibility we have to be civil towards others. Ignoring someone disavows their worth because it forces the individual to become an object-something with a definite value to be placed in a consequentialist formula for action. You-the object to be denied--are wound-in-waiting. To be with you, to address you, would be like hurting myself (even if only the pain of being slightly inconvenienced). Thus, the usefulness of a person becomes the operative quality in decision-making and selfishness asserts its tyranny.

Enough. I think you get the point. Please, grant myself and others our humanity. Do not turn us into objects.

November 02, 2008

Love and Justice
2 has been having a rough day. Some juice from her grapefruit stung her eye, an inordinate amount of wrong number calls came in during inopportune times, and her head has been throbbing from caffeine withdrawal and the onset of a sinus infection.

1 has been having a fine day. The wind blew with merciful coolness on him, his peanut-butter and jelly sandwich tasted delicious, and the book he has been reading has gone a long way towards giving him courage that he knows he needs.

Upon arriving home to where 2 was lying on the bed, they shared this conversation:

1: "Hey 2, why are you in bed? Are you okay? You've been in bed a lot lately. Are your spirits out of whack?"
2: "I'm fine. I'm just tired."
1: "Oh. Well, I'll leave you be then. Have you seen the book I've been reading lately? I thought I left it on the counter this morning before I left for work."
2: "I don't keep track of your things. I only keep track of your own. I didn't move them if that's what you're insinuating?"
1: "I wasn't insinuating anything. I just thought you might have noticed it somewhere."
2: "Like I said, I don't take notice of your things."
1: "Okay. You've established that. I was clarifying what I thought before you established your lack of interest in everything that's mine."
2: "Fine. Leave me alone and close the door."
1: "Why are you in such a poor mood?"
2: "I told you I don't feel well."
1: "No, you told me you were tired."
2: "I'm tired and I don't feel well. I want to be left alone."
1: "So you think it's okay to treat me poorly because you don't feel well?"
2: "I would treat anyone poorly because I don't feel well. You are not an exceptional case?"
1: "And you don't think that's a problem?"
2: "I wish I was feeling better. Then I wouldn't have the demeanor I do."
1: "But until you are recovered, you think it's permissible to be unloving towards the people you love?"
2: "Who said anything about unloving? I just want to be left alone..."
1: "And to bring about being left alone you lash out so that people won't want to be around you. You lash out at people that don't deserve to be lashed out at. I didn't make you sick, and even if I did, I didn't want to. So, don't take it out on me."
2: "And you think I wanted to lash out at you? It just happened. Besides, you're one to talk about unloving. What's more unloving than not forgiving someone you love? You could have shown me patience and interpreted my interactions with you sympathetically. You could have seen that I was in no mood to talk and so forgiven me for being curt. Maybe even better, you could have been a little more observant, seen that I was in bed, and deduced with that sweet, big head of yours that I was not well, and left me to rest. Do you really need to ask a person who's in bed at 4 pm if they are okay? Am I normally in bed at this time?"
1: "You act as though it is some sort of capital offense that I was concerned about you. I thought you weren't well, and so I asked to verify that suspicion. Then I could do something to help you--like get you something to drink or call the doctor..."
2: "Or leave me in peace."
1: "Yes, or leave you in peace. I want peace too, you know. I want peace and justice. I want to not be shit on because you don't feel well. I want an apology and then I want to leave you alone."
2: "And I want a little fucking sympathy! I want to be able to focus on my healing so that I can get back to normal. And justice?! How's this for justice? You lost your book, so you should find your book!"
1: "As if you need permission to focus on yourself. You never do anything but that. I'm sorry I bothered you to ask for your help. I thought you loved me and wouldn't be too put out to utter a few words about places it might be. After all, I loved you enough to try to be of help to you and your sickness."
2: "And justice strikes again! You did something for me so I should do something for you. Can't you just give me the gift of a quiet afternoon and take care of yourself while I'm sick?"
1: "I didn't even know you were sick!"
2: "I was in bed!"
1: "You could have been napping! Maybe I wanted to take a nap with you!"

With that, 1 slammed the door and stamped off to the kitchen where he found his book under a box of Kleenex. 1 thought of how he should be more forgiving; 2 thought of how sorry she was for not being civil with the man she loved. They cuddled that night prior to falling asleep and had accomplished more through remaining silent than they had in trying to speak earlier that afternoon.

November 15, 2008

Incomplete thoughts on a proper sort of embarrassment
Philosophers and nearly unanimous in taking human selfishness as fundamental. In a field where disagreement is the fuel of development, where 10 arguments rip down a proposal for every one argument that sets up a positive proposal, such unanimity is noteworthy.

How can a person live life without noticing that other's are concerned about themselves more than us, and that we are more concerned about ourselves than others? (How else could life possibly work?) Spend any time with humans, and this trait will be displayed more than any other. Less debatable than whether a person knows a certain proposition is whether a certain person is self-concerned.

With that general principle established, what are we as agents to do with it? In interacting with others, we ought to expect them to place their own interests higher than ours (in the event that they do not overlap). Additionally, we should expect that we instantiate similar placements (despite any wistful desires to the contrary). Selfishness is the default, and so we approach the world accordingly.

Approaching the world thus provides a reason to take less offense. A person undermines you interest: it is to be expected. You undermine the interests of another: it is to be expected. We are responsible to ourselves before we are responsible to others. First we place the oxygen masks on ourselves, then on incapable passengers. Without the basis of self-interest, survival becomes unimaginable. How could a person really endure without beginning with self and then addressing others? Nature is a stern mother; if you do not take care to do your chores, you cannot go out and play. ("Go to your room," and there you rot.)

Approaching the world thus provides a reason to be embarrassed. So overwhelming is the selfish tendency, that to be considered at all (and all-the-more to be considered more highly) by another should move us to a sort of shame. "Who am I to receive your concern?" "What could I have possibly done to make you think you should compromise your own time (and space) for me?" "You are wasting valuable time on me." How embarrassing it should be to receive a gift! "You have ceded your own natural vitality to me--have expended your resources to nourish me?!"

"Matthew, this is too much. You take your division too far. Yes, people are generally self-interested, but not always. They are also interested in others. Look at the parent-child relationship. The creators of life naturally tend to the lives they create--even at their own expense. That must temper your expectations and with it the possibility of offense increases and embarrassment decreases. People do owe us legitimate consideration. We ought to scold others when we do not receive it and ought not be so surprised when we do. Is that not the more honest assessment of human nature?"

No. Nature only demands preservation. Something else demands perpetuation. Preservation only concerns the self. Perpetuation looks outside. Human nature, insofar as it is of this world, only is concerned with securing its own existence.

"But what of the yearning for fame? What of the life that is spent in tirelessly in the pursuit of notoriety, for instance? How does that pertain to securing one's existence? Being well-known does nothing to keep one alive and flourishing."

I do not deny that fame contradicts the natural drive, but that is precisely because it is unnatural.

November 16, 2008

Bafflement
If someone were to ask me:

2: "What baffles you the most?"
1: "The nature of the space between people, the area where relations occur."
2: "What about that is so baffling?"
1: "Nothing else seems so unpredictable. Nothing else can generate such starkly divergent effects from what their causes were."
2: "What do you mean?"
1: "A man, from a place of loving-kindness, tries to coordinate something with a woman. He sees a problem in their relationship, a place of discord, and wants to resolve it. He wants them to be working well, to be "firing on all cylinders." This requires a bit of discussion, perhaps a little confrontation--but all solely for the sake of final resolution and problem-solving. How is it then, with such intentions, that the result can be a further muddling? How is it that something that began with a desire for improved relations can end in hysterical arguments, further antagonisms, and greater discord? What is the space between individuals like? Somehow, the medium must contort the message. Or rather, sometimes it can contort it. Of course, sometimes intentions align with conclusions. So, sometimes the medium seems to not get in the way, to not divert or misconstrue the attempt from one party (whatever end it may have). And there appears to be no rhyme or reason behind it. There can hardly be odds calculated as to whether the space between individuals will further or disrupt communications. It strikes me as disturbingly random. I honestly have no idea how something will be interpreted, even though I may have taken time to formulate it as genuinely as possible. I may as justifiably expect to be thought of as hateful as I would as loving upon offering an olive branch to another person. At once, a person can say "How dare you?! Who are you to try to make peace with me, you scum!" as, "You tender-hearted man, of course we can be at peace. I know why you extend your hand towards me with the gift of consolation."
2: "And the difference between the two scenarios you attribute to the space between individuals. Why don't you attribute it to one or both of the individuals themselves? Why don't you blame the messenger and not the road the message travels on for the message arriving improperly? Or, couldn't it be that the recipient has the wrong prescription for his glasses, and thus cannot read the message clearly--despite the fact that no message could be more legible to the person with clear vision?"
1: "But that would require me to pass judgment on the interiority of another being and how could I do that? How could I be so bold as to assert that another person is wearing the wrong glasses, as it were? Moreover, how could I be so self-assured that I insist that my messages are always (or even usually) so righteous?"
2: "So, in the name of conceptual ease, you heap your shortcomings on a thing that isn't even real? Honestly, do you really think there is a medium at all? Do you really think that something else contorts a message? There are only two things involved in interaction between two people: person 1 and person 2. The only blame (or responsibility, if you prefer) to be found is to be found in one or the other (or both)."
1: "And if I am not comfortable blaming one or the other (or both)?"
2: "Then you are not comfortable with truth."
1: "Or at least not comfortable with so deep a notion of responsibility. Where is the justice in condemning one or another (or both) for failure? How can we blame, pass such severe judgment, upon beings who cannot be so transparent in their interactions with others? It stands to reason that if we cannot be so transparent with ourselves, we cannot be so with others. And really, how can we know ourselves so well as to present our intentions, wrapped up in a bow? Can there be any final certainty in such an assessment? What of the subconscious? What of our tendency to be wantonly ignorant of our own shortcomings? Wouldn't that make us more likely to heap communicative failures on the other? Isn't my own bafflement an improvement over that state by trying to lay it at the feet of a non-entity (neither the self, nor the other)?"
2: "If you think suspension of belief is an improvement, then I suppose it is."
1: "Enough."