I came across the following vignette when I was searching my hard drive for some old notes. I wrote it last May, when I was concurrently enrolled in Philosophy 240 "Existentialism" and Religion 270 "Buddha."
Sartre: I’d really like to thank you, Buddha, for taking the time out of your busy schedule to talk with me about essences.
Buddha: It literally was no problem at all. My potential manifestations are infinite. You are talking to an illusion right now.
Sartre: Wow. Well, I really appreciate it anyway. Umm, so I guess you probably know my ‘slogan,’ “existence precedes essence.” When I say this, I mean that we humans, unlike common objects, have no essential nature. We are free to forge our own essence through our actions. I’ve heard that you have an interesting perspective on essence and the composition of the self, and I was kind of curious what you might have to say about my philosophy.
Buddha: I agree with your criticism of essence, Jean-Paul, but I don’t agree that such a thing as a paper cutter would have an essence, while human beings do not.
Sartre: Well, I think you’ll find that it’s really quite simple. A paper cutter has essential properties that are fixed by its type—it is created with the specific purpose of cutting paper. In contrast, man was not created with any specific purpose (since it is now widely acknowledged that God is an incoherent concept). In light of this, man forges his own essence via a process of becoming.
Buddha: Despite the fact that your criticism of essence initially appears to be promising, I now see that we have different views entirely on the matter. While you think that tools do have essences and that humans create their essences retroactively, I hold that essence cannot exist. Every concept and form can be shattered to reveal emptiness, or no-thing. You argue that, for humans, the how of existence precedes the that of existence, but the truth is simply that there is no that. That is a chimera; a propagator of suffering.
Sartre: You are a nihilist!
Buddha: Some have accused me of this. They are not enlightened.
3.29.2010
You know that Greek god, the one that brings the sun up every day with a flaming solar chariot? I think it's Helios, or maybe Apollo. Anyway, no matter his name, any god with a flaming solar chariot needs a whip to crack as he brings on the day with his thundering solar steeds. And that whip is the Kansas turnpike.
I drove 1,143 miles on 1-35 last night, beginning in Austin, TX, and ending in Northfield, MN. Actually, I personally only drove around five hours, between 1 and 6 a.m. This is my favorite shift to drive. My tires devour silent gaping roads, and my freedom is meditative, pure, and alive. The sun came up over Kansas just as the moon set, and there, in the reeling center of celestial rearrangement, it became clear to me that the turnpike is Apollo's whip.
And, with that realization, I begin my last term at Carleton. All the snow has melted, and weather.com predicts a ridiculous 78˚ F for Wednesday. I simply cannot fathom this, and anticipate the inevitable April blizzard with apprehension. For now, though, the whole word looks a little surprised to be naked, and is blushing green. My classes look good. I kinda like it.
I drove 1,143 miles on 1-35 last night, beginning in Austin, TX, and ending in Northfield, MN. Actually, I personally only drove around five hours, between 1 and 6 a.m. This is my favorite shift to drive. My tires devour silent gaping roads, and my freedom is meditative, pure, and alive. The sun came up over Kansas just as the moon set, and there, in the reeling center of celestial rearrangement, it became clear to me that the turnpike is Apollo's whip.
And, with that realization, I begin my last term at Carleton. All the snow has melted, and weather.com predicts a ridiculous 78˚ F for Wednesday. I simply cannot fathom this, and anticipate the inevitable April blizzard with apprehension. For now, though, the whole word looks a little surprised to be naked, and is blushing green. My classes look good. I kinda like it.
3.12.2010
Finals
A warm white fog has descended over Northfield, and the snow is melting all squishy and brown and hopeful. The edges of everything are softened, too, like someone had a lot of fanciful fun developing the universe... My mind is spinning with Thai monks and psychotropic drugs, and I have less than 48 hours to write eight pages and take an exam.
I'll probably survive, although it is fitting to re-visit this limerick that I wrote exactly one year ago today.
On a somewhat unrelated note, I found the wonderfully distracting website Wordle, and pasted in my senior thesis. This was the result (words that were used the most often are the largest):
I'll probably survive, although it is fitting to re-visit this limerick that I wrote exactly one year ago today.
On a somewhat unrelated note, I found the wonderfully distracting website Wordle, and pasted in my senior thesis. This was the result (words that were used the most often are the largest):
3.02.2010
2.24.2010
This is college:
Wearing mittens, I fumble with my psychopharm note-cards, and drop all 187 of them into a snow bank. The moon waxes as I walk home and the snow glitters like it's absorbing the moon's essence. As I fall into bed, I hear three-part harmony wafting up through the ventilation system because someone's recording music in the basement. I set three alarms so I can get to the Rec Center at 6:30 a.m. for my Frisbee scrimmage, and then I read Clifford Geertz's theory of religion as a cultural system over fried eggs so I can have something intelligent to say in class... which started a minute ago. There is a sub-wufer in my kitchen. My housemate installs surround sound and we dance to Michael Jackson and eat of a massive batch of vegetarian chili. (I'm talking four tablespoons of cumin.) During the Olympics, we argue about whether the hockey man impacting the wall creates a standing wave or a time-dependent wave, and I'm soo tired but I have seven pages to write for tomorrow and I really feel like I need to write in my journal. I make quick coffee dates and nap on library couches, and can scarcely believe it when loving cardinal couples chirp bravely of spring as they poke their way through the snowdrifts. I laugh so hard that I cry, and I run out to the wind turbine when it's above 20 degrees. The bright-white winter sun burns my eyes, it smells like the Malt-O-Meal factory is making off-brand Co Co Puffs, and I wonder about truth. I wonder whether I should feel guilty about wondering about truth, given that a significant portion of the world is starving. I'm late for something again. I need to start that paper.
2.21.2010
Fire and Ice
I was just reading my Neruda anthology (again). This is one of my favorite procrastination techniques.
Once more I am the silent one
who came out of the distance
wrapped in cold rain and bells:
I owe to earth's pure death
the will to sprout.
Funny that I bought that book in Varanasi, on the Ganga.
At this moment, everything is shifting, although superficially stuck on winter motifs.
Yesterday we took a bus to northern Wisconsin, and skied ten kilometers across frozen Lake Superior. The way, lit by candles inside ice blocks, was mirrored by starlight. A bonfire blazed at the finish line, right there on the ice.
Once more I am the silent one
who came out of the distance
wrapped in cold rain and bells:
I owe to earth's pure death
the will to sprout.
Funny that I bought that book in Varanasi, on the Ganga.
At this moment, everything is shifting, although superficially stuck on winter motifs.
Yesterday we took a bus to northern Wisconsin, and skied ten kilometers across frozen Lake Superior. The way, lit by candles inside ice blocks, was mirrored by starlight. A bonfire blazed at the finish line, right there on the ice.
Sky and Lake.
Fire and Ice.
I like it when opposites merge, or at least shake hands in poetic ways.
I'm in the library right now. In about five minutes the Geek Bell is gonna jangle, indicating the closure of the library. I still have an essay to write for tomorrow morning. I'm stuck right now, though. Vividly nostalgic for travel and movement. Wondering about my life's trajectory. Distracted by the waxing moon.
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