I was reading about the Epicureans and hedonists recently. They seem to be onto something: the experience of one’s body (and brain in particular) is deeply deterministic of the experience of life. Ideals are not available to compensate for pain and suffering, unless they translate that pain and suffering (converting the ideal into a pragmatic mechanism). “The good” is a direct experience, perhaps intuitively understood, perhaps deliberately narrated. This book is a meditation on the stories and physical experiences of living. We’ve taken a look at a lot so far. Or taken a listen to someone (ideally not me) reading aloud to you, probably on a medium through which you have no ongoing rights without being a member of the platform (unless we made it into library audio book collections). Has there been a purpose to this journey? I think we still have time to decide.
There’s another problem, among many, with philosophy. In addition to the whole “no language can exist outside of context thing”, wisdom is a bit of a silly thing to be in love with. It’s like loving being more powerful than other people: loving a position superior to other people. Philosophers have seemed to love being superior, from Socrates to Sartre. This is almost certainly why I’ve appreciated them so much. To feel like an outsider, moving so much and sensing a separateness, I reveled in a feeling that I had experienced and known things that other people did not, perhaps even could not. I still feel called to be “interesting” and to live in such a way that is not templated. I think the key is to feel different, but not better. Not necessarily wiser, absolutely not more powerful. Epicurean pleasure is the pleasure of moderation, a pleasure that accepts “mediocrity” and disdains striving to win. I think moderation can be nice, but it’s by no means my lens for seeing living. I over-think in excess, with no expectation of moderation in the future. Over-bicycle. Under-work. Different, but not better. Only interesting in the sense that I’m interested.
It’s a hot afternoon in June, at the very end of the month. It smells and sounds like construction and air conditioning. I’m sitting under a tree in a courtyard, blowing away spiders and drinking watered down cold brew. Feeling soreness in my legs and back, but not suffering or painful soreness. Feeling meandering and vague in the brain, probably from the humidity and digestion.
Yesterday, I was caught in a riptide of the brain. Dragged out to sea to the murky deep, intermittently submerged in bad television and too much cereal with almond milk. A disturbing reminder that not getting enough sleep has serious consequences. Though awareness and remembering from my experiences of months-long riptides shook me out of it. It’s amazing how much throwing a few things away and moving a little bit of furniture around is the equivalent of swimming parallel to the shore and laying down in the hot sand once again. Throw in a good night’s sleep and today is back to equanimity.
I’ve diluted my cold brew the rest of the way, it’s more like unsweetened coffee iced tea now. There’s an ant crawling across the table.
Roman Ryan 