tonight
In all the civilizations in all the world in all time the major question of all the philosophers has been something along the lines of why. Everyone wrestled with it; noteably in my mind at the moment such philosophers included St. Augustine, Dr. Thompson, Bob Pirsig and of course Hank. Evening walks, or more acurately night-walks, are becoming a regular, and welcome, aspect of my schedule. I consider them something of a substantive, for now, for my desire for more expansive wandering. If the motion of footfalls is present, the mind is freed to wander extra-vagantly, whether feet travel over countryside or campus sidewalk.
Walking around campus this evening, looking for glue to repair my nalgene bottle's lid-securing doodady bit, it occurred to me that, well, the biggest problem plaguing the philosophers of whatever generation is that sort of need for some kind of answer, usually manifest in some kind of introspection, y'know. I know, it's no news to anyone that this is the case, but in walking, in the very act of thinking about the problem, I sort of received my own answer; that is, it was the wondering that fulfilled the questions posed in the wondering. So maybe that's the point? Just to think? Kristin said, in an email in response to a scrawled manifestation of the question on her door, that the point is that introspection 'maybe care about who we are. Have a stake in it. Be wrapped up in it.' Maybe it's that simple.
After he quit the pond Henry Thoreau sat up late at night bothering himself with second-guesses. They became the rousing finale of Walden. I imagine a sinewy, bearded man living in his sister's house staying late at night, watching ants crawl up and down his wall, awakened by a dream-memory of the lapping of Walden's waters on the shore next to his shanty. Scholars are out on how we should react to 'the sun is just a morning star' citing an unclear sentiment--that's because Henry's own feelings on the matter were very mixed. He was homesick, up in his sister's attic.
shb
Walking around campus this evening, looking for glue to repair my nalgene bottle's lid-securing doodady bit, it occurred to me that, well, the biggest problem plaguing the philosophers of whatever generation is that sort of need for some kind of answer, usually manifest in some kind of introspection, y'know. I know, it's no news to anyone that this is the case, but in walking, in the very act of thinking about the problem, I sort of received my own answer; that is, it was the wondering that fulfilled the questions posed in the wondering. So maybe that's the point? Just to think? Kristin said, in an email in response to a scrawled manifestation of the question on her door, that the point is that introspection 'maybe care about who we are. Have a stake in it. Be wrapped up in it.' Maybe it's that simple.
After he quit the pond Henry Thoreau sat up late at night bothering himself with second-guesses. They became the rousing finale of Walden. I imagine a sinewy, bearded man living in his sister's house staying late at night, watching ants crawl up and down his wall, awakened by a dream-memory of the lapping of Walden's waters on the shore next to his shanty. Scholars are out on how we should react to 'the sun is just a morning star' citing an unclear sentiment--that's because Henry's own feelings on the matter were very mixed. He was homesick, up in his sister's attic.
shb