Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Day 38

Out of the corner of my eye. I spoke out of turn. It is not true that I see nothing. I see something, I almost glimpse it, but as soon as I try to look the thing disappears. Call it anything you like, the I-now, the Buddha on my shoulder, my superego, the metaphysics of presence (ha ha).

I cannot be sceptical, I will not resort to mystery-mongering, I know better than to go in for irrelevant philosophical displacement activities such as 'phenomenological ontology' or 'dialectical logic' or any such rubbish. Maybe there's nothing here for the philosopher at all, but I don't know that. There might be. The one thing that I have, besides myself and the conviction that I exist, is the determination not to be illuded. 'Won't get fooled again.'

Yet without any prospect of going forward, it all seems pointless. I can twist and turn, thrash about, trying to 'catch a glimpse', or I can remain rigidly immobile, refusing to be moved from my impregnable position. It makes no odds. Do what you like, or do nothing. So not for the first time I'm beginning to question the point of continuing these entries in my philosophical notebook, these disconnected thoughts, or ramblings.

But then I remember. 'They also serve who stand and wait.' To wait attentively is an action, not inaction. Like the lone fisherman. If I knew what was coming, what I was waiting for, this wouldn't be the experience that it is. Or like waiting at a bus stop. How different that would be, if you genuinely didn't know whether any bus was coming at all, or, better still, if you didn't know whether what was coming (if anything) was a bus, or a fire-breathing dragon, or a plate of spaghetti.

Philosophers have to suffer for their art, and boredom is the philosopher's doom. — I wouldn't like to hazard a guess at the state of mind of anyone reading these words. Why? Haven't you got anything better to do? On second thoughts, yes, I know what this is about. Like the curious onlookers in the street watching Nietzsche's tightrope walker. Just waiting for him to tumble. The artist–writer suffers and sweats, while the reader is entertained. Except I'm not Nietzsche, and I'm certainly not in the business of walking tightropes. There's nothing I want that's worth risking my life for. Boredom, yes, I will pay out any amount in that coin. I am the grand master of boredom. There's a kind of heroism in that. But you?