Category Archives: Philosophy

50th Entree: Who is Who

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Welcome back to the Philosophy Bistro!

If my count is correct, this is the 50th of the official Entrées….

Technically, this is the 156th. There were also 32 recipes,Pierce new - Copy
16 very thought-provoking articles by Brando,
12 audio-files (pardon the pun), 5 or 6 by Wode, one by Anno,
8 reruns, and then all the jokes & cartoons……

Thank you, Peirce.
As I was saying, this is the 50th of the official Entrées produced at Robert’s Philosophy Bistro. Before heading into the next 50, I thought I would take some time for basic introductions.

Robert’s Philosophy Bistro is a clean, comfortably lighted place to enjoy fine food, fine drink, good company and good conversation. In addition to our food specials, there are weekly special entrées which are ideas: ideas we hope amuse or prompt your ideas, or which can be taken home, pondered over, adapted and served new–like the weekly recipes. Most of these are philosophical in nature, but our notion of philosophy is rather broad.

Our bistro is mostly imaginary, but is currently located at 241 East Main Street in Johnson City, Tennessee; if you have suggestions for relocating, we are always up for a road-trip. Like most restaurants, it is a non-profit generating community group that would love to actually generate income. If you have any ideas (or any money) feel free to offer suggestions (or donations).

If you cannot afford a donation, please leave a question. I mean that. I try to answer any of the interesting questions I can get, and tend to run low on new ideas from time to time.

If you cannot afford a question, help yourself to one of ours. We have plenty.

Please also let us know who you are by leaving a not in our Guest Book.
Hello Questions

The cast of characters is a fluctuating group of ragamuffins, ne’er-do-wells, pirates and characters, all with colorful personalities and back-stories–the same as most restaurant kitchens. Our food is phenomenal–although we will serve noumenal take-away–and a good deal of the staff is phenomenological.

As of this writing they include the following:

I am your host, Dr Bear.
Nominally, I am in charge, as well as serving as maître d’hôtel, Master of Ceremonies, menu planner, and, of course, referee. By nature I am a gentleman, a philosopher and a raconteur, but occasionally I am also practical. Over the course of the last year, I have discovered I am also a bit of an idealist, and much more optimistic than I anticipated. I may be fictional, but bear a strong resemblance to at least one non-fictional person.

This is not accidental.

gravity 2

 

Dr Bear tends to say things like this:

color why not

The Universe

 

 

Small Arms 005
In case you were wondering: yes, I really am a doctor. Years ago I earned a PhD, and my areas of research were originally German Enlightenment Philosophy and its critics, and then Social Practices & Cross-cultural understanding. May I bring you some more bread?
Wode Toad is the chef.WT-black-white-blue2.jpg
It is also quite possible that he really is in charge. He is as complex, as mysterious, and as dangerous as a Sriracha Haggis. If forced to suffer fools, he will be sure to return the suffering with interest. His cooking is even faster than his wit, which is saying something. He is a classics scholar with a knack for high stakes investments, so he cooks here and advises us on whiskeys.
He serves as the pessimistic, direct, and occasionally nihilistic counter-weight to Dr Bear’s optimism and courtesy.

WT-killng-time

 

He says things like:

WT_hemi

coffeemarriage equality
Wode & Courbet 
Lately, Wode has also disappeared, and I haven’t seen him for a week or so.
Mousy-Icon.jpg
He said something about travelling; he also talked about warmer places.

 

Probably back to Mexico or South Africa, then. If he was going back to Argentina, he would have told Peirce, and, of course, he cannot go back to Eastern Asia, or even Oceana, because of “the incident.”

Brando cautiously optimisticNext is Brando, the sous-chef.
Like Dr Bear, he is an underemployed philosopher and social theorist. He is down to earth but full of whimsy, continental but a Kentucky gentleman, very smart but very kind. The name of the Bistro was his idea. He writes wonderful entrées under his own byline. Although Dr Bear and he try to insert formal philosophy when they can, life seems to intervene.
He seems to be involved in a long-term experiment that consists in raising two lovely young girls, but then again, they might be involved in an experiment that consists in raising him. We hope it is the former, since the chances of the girls turning out OK is substantially more promising.
He is currently on a sabbatical from the Bistro, devoting more time to the girls, and writing a novel.French Food

 

 

Brando says things like:

 

 

 

TheologyC-Rap

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Since I am currently two staff members short, the shinobi has stepped up to the plate to fill the gap. I haven’t really seen much of her (Mousy occasionally likes to sneak up on her, offer her pastry & chat with her), but she is fast and hard-working, and she never complains.

Pierce faing rightPeirce is the dishwasher, although he has also had to step up and step into the kitchen. He is a proud citizen of the United Kingdom, being from one of its territories. There are bits of the war with Argentina he would prefer to forget, but he seems happy enough with his work and his library.  He is a voracious and omnivorous reader reading almost everything he can get his hands on, and will write book reviews for us if I can get him to stop reading.
I once ask a friend who is a Café manager if I would get into trouble having a penguin living in my walk-in cooler, but as I was saying it, I realized how ridiculous it sounded, and how illegal our kitchen is anyway.
Peirce says things like:Bookster

bookster geekThe newest member of our staff is our pastry cook and baker, Anno Mouse.
Mousy Full  He goes by Mousy. He is probably the quietest of the Bistro staff, but this doesn’t necessarily mean he doesn’t have anything to say. Mousy is the introvert at the Wonderland Tea Party that is our kitchen. Mousy is more of a dreamer, and inclined to listen to others when they need to be listened to, and to believe the best of all creatures. He is a hopeless romantic, and cripplingly sentimental. He tends to read fantasy, and is more interested in psychology than in philosophy.

He does have a temper for bullies, and for people who would take away rights, animal or other.Silence

 

Mousy tends to say things like: 

 

 

 

Sarcasm

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alex

 

On occasion, we have a our fantasy IT person Alex drop by, but even in fantasy’s it is hard to schedule somebody to work on your computer.

 

All of us here at the Bistro believe in food and good, wide-ranging conversations, and we hope our readers & guests do to. I would like to say we believe in each other as well, but there is a rumor that at least one of us is fictional.

Of course, there is also a rumor that the bistro itself does not exist.
If it didn’t, would you be here?

Would that make the rest of us dis-fictional?

Drop by again, anytime.

1010signature rules

 

 

.PS:  Visit us on facebook at https://www.facebook.com/PhilosophyBistro, or e-mail us at DrBear@philosophybistro.com. being right

 

….and remember the Dr Bear motto:

 

Tea.

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I used to teach two philosophy courses, a course on Ancient philosophy titled “How to live well,” and a course on Modern philosophy I called “How to be human.” Because each of them only met once a week, they were 3 hours long. I can certainly talk for 3 hours, but classes are much better as a conversation, and their energy would begin to flag part way through.

At this point we would break for tea.

Classroom Tea (3)Sometimes, I had cookies, but generally I would just buy a variety of apples at the local farm stand–they go quite well with tea. After the tea, they would have more energy (though often less concentration), and the conversation would assume a more relaxed, mellow character of give and take and exploration.
Many of my students have made tea a regular part of their lives, which I find gratifying. A higher proportion of boys in their 20s own teapots thanks to me, which means they have learned something important about being human and living well.

Why tea?

There are many rituals that involve meeting around a table and sharing food. Some are more time consuming, but sharing a pot of tea can be done fairly simply, and instantly involves sitting together and interacting. It is something that is made, so it involves a little bit of an individual touch, and Tea and Scones for my classa personal touch. The host has a position of control, but also must assume a servant role as he or she serves the tea, asking about milk, sugar, cookies, etc. One already has some small talk asking and answering these questions. Tea is a caffeinated beverage, but generally doesn’t signal the need for intense stimulation that coffee does, leaving instead a more gentle, thoughtful visit (don’t’ get me wrong; I love coffee, too).

It is civilized, and civilizing.

Asian Teapot (6)There is also the ritual of preparing the tea, which, like most rituals, can be relaxing and meditative itself. Cold water in the kettle, the wait for the boil, pouring hot water in the tea pot to warm it up, and then offering it up as a cleansing votive offering. Measuring out a teaspoon of tea leaves for each guest, and an extra one in case Mousey or Wode Toad come to visit. Adding in the hot water (it should have boiled, but should not be boiling), and allowing the tea to steep–I would say at least 3 minutes, since I like strong tea, but you should experiment: too soon is too weak, too late becomes bitter, or acquires a tinny, unpleasant edge.

At this point, the variety begins: with milk? poured in before the tea? (try it, it tastes different) sugar? one lump or two? rock sugar? honey? a bit of jelly in the tea to sweeten it? lemon?
Would you like something with that?

Tea is part of what we want to be. Yes, we want to be classy, like the British upper-crust of the 19th century, but sharing tea makes us–or allows us–to do things that make us better. We automatically become more polite–in part because of the atmosphere it creates, but also because of all the interaction:
Tea with Mousy (5)“Would you like sugar?”
“Yes, please.”
“Milk?”
“No, thank you.”
“Here you go…”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
More than that, it is shared. It involves the gentle gift of hospitality, and the gracious gift of appreciation. It involves a sensual pleasure that is shared–although it is one which is appropriate and can be talked about in public. Most of all, it moves at a slower pace than doing shots of Jägermeister. It is tea time; it is taken at its own speed, sitting and relaxing.

Sensual joy, physical sustenance, engaging in little comforting rituals, giving, receiving, and sharing hospitality, slowing down in order to have a conversation, listening, being polite–perhaps even witty–most of all, taking the time to sit down and engage with another human being–these and more are the elements that go into tea.

Isn’t that really what being human and living well are about?
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foolish heart

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This is a belated Valentine’s Day Entrée.
As sometimes happens, the audio is available here.

Some things simply cannot be known.

You cannot look at the sky and track the eagle,
You cannot look at the sea and track the ship,
you cannot  look at the rocks and track the snake,
and you cannot explain the human heart.

I am a man of reason.
Not only do I believe in the power of reason, I have lived relying on reason. It is part of my credo, and a big, big part of my life. It is deeply engrained in who I am. Although I generally argue against splitting the person into different parts, as if mind, body, heart, and soul were all different things to be examined and discussed separately, I have found that the heart keeps its own council, and does not always seem to be inclined to share its plans, or even its reasons. As Blaise Pascal wrote: “The heart has its reasons of which reason cannot know.”
I have spoken to men who have had heart surgery and am amazed at how many of them report being more emotional, more open to tears, more sentimental afterwards. A broken heart: is that not just a metaphor? Breaking the organ does not really affect one emotionally, does it? Yet this metaphor has a power beyond our casual use of it. The heart is its own creature, doing as it will, being broken or healed.

The heart is a mystifying aspect of being human.
The heart suddenly decides something else. One sees a pair of eyes, one hears a voice, one is stabbed by a smile and a laugh, and suddenly the world is flooded with colour.
There is suddenly an ache, a euphoria, an inescapable weight heavier than stone, and a sudden flight lighter than air. In the harshest winter, there is suddenly full spring, or in the softest summer, there is suddenly frost.
Where there were plans, suddenly one wastes time, and the plans keep changing to turn into new plans—sometimes grudgingly approved by reason, sometimes in spite of reason’s strong disapproval. The mind shakes its head, but the body—it cannot help but follow the heart. It must go where the heart sends it (enjoying every bit of the journey). One bays at the moon or hangs poems on trees. Why? Who can say? One can give a hundred reasons, but none of them are the reason.
The heart has changed, and with it… everything.
I love you; I cannot do otherwise.

Or suddenly there is a change of heart.
That sounds simple enough, but with the change of a heart, certainties vanish, worlds crumble and lives are torn apart. Where there was warmth, there is now coldness and bitterness. What could once be forgiven is now clung to in pettiness.
The heart keeps it own council. The heart has its own reasons, but the mind is left to deal with the wake of destruction—one even worse than falling into love. The heart has gone where it has gone, but suddenly the body aches with tension, with headaches, it cannot sleep, it cannot eat. Life continues, but if one’s heart is not in it, it is drudgery, routine, a cold March slough.Why has the heart changed? Why has the love slowly ebbed away to pearly grey and barrenness?  Again, one can give a hundred reasons, or list a hundred faults, but none of them are the reason, none of them are at fault.
The heart has changed, and with it… everything.
I don’t love you any more; I cannot pretend otherwise.

…and none of that even begins to express the confusion and messiness of the other poor human beings whose lives are changed by that mercurial creature, the human heart.
Humans may believe that the mind is minding their business, but they are ruled by their mischievous hearts.

I know a lot. I even wrote a dissertation on human behaviour and understanding, but the wiser I get, the less I understand this simple, common, human thing: the heart.

Not even my own. 214signature

France has wine, we have wifi.

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GordesOn these dreary winter days, I find myself day-dreaming of the mellow sunshine of Provence, in Southern France.
The air is different there. It is infused with a light that cannot be captured in photographs; the most realistic, literal, depictions of it are the paintings of Van Gogh or Cezanne. The air is almost a living being of light and warmth wrapped close around you, lying with you skin on skin. It has its own fragrance, one like nothing else in the world, but if I smelled it anywhere, I would know it. It is a mixture of baked grass and dry5 Avignon (56), ochre dirt, warm fennel, the spicy scent of olive leaves, the sharp, tangy sweetness of lavender, and the warm scent of waking in the early morning after a dream.
This is the part of France where Northern Europe meets the Mediterranean, so the markets are vibrant and full of color–a symphony of fresh produce. You can fill–and lose–your senses in the melons of Cavaillon. They are the size of a young breast and as sweet as the promise of new love.

There is a stereotype that the French are haughty and rude–especially the waiters. I never found this to be true. The French (and their wait-staff) are proud, and–like most 5 Avignon (11)Europeans–they do not share the compulsive or compulsory cheeriness that Americans think of as “being nice.” They are to the point and professional, but, like us, they have things to do and places to be, and their patience can be taxed. Some, of course, are rude, but some are sympathetic, just like people everywhere. The folks at the tourism desk in Cavaillon who helped us find bicycles to get to Gordes were patient and went above and beyond. Paris is, for the most part, less patient with tourists–having lived in Nashville (“Music City, USA!”), I remember just how annoying those pasty, indecisive, lumbering road-blocks could be, and I understand how easy it is to lose patience with out-of-towners. Outside of Paris, however, many of the French are very kind, hospitable and helpful. In southern France, they are also more laid back.

There are 2 things that I found hard to get in French restaurants: wifi and the bill. Europe in general is less attached to smart phones & pads than we are–you mostly see Asian tourists using them. Although there is good, high-speed internet, it is usually in specific places–homes, offices, schools, and Irish Pubs, not showered about as free wifi. There is “fast food” in France, but most French restaurants and Cafés are not fast. Waiters are really quick to seat you, and to get your drink order (and give you bread), but then leave you time to order, bring your meals as they are made, and then disappear.
I believe the two are related.
The reason that there is no rush on the final bill is because there should be no rush to finish the meal. Imagine this: you are sitting in Avignon, in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. The neighborhood is beautiful. The restaurant is beautiful. The food is amazing, and the company you are lucky enough to share your food with are both beautiful and amazing. Why should you rush? If people must rush in life, they should be rushing in order to eat amazing food in beautiful places with beautiful and amazing people, not rushing that in order to go sightsee. Have some more wine! 5 Avignon (28)Try a bottle of Pastis. Enjoy the conversation. Smell the beautiful air that is Provence. Live.
So, why, if you are in the most perfect place in the world, do you need to check your iPad, your kindle, your iPhone, your Android, your nook, or any other albatross binding you to another place? How could you not be completely and totally in the moment? How could there be more interesting people than the ones you are with?

We have our wifi, they have their wines. We may have one some big wars, but we have lost a very important one.

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Color in a Dreary World

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As any one who knows me has noticed, I am fond of color.Dr Bear in Colour

Outside of the Bistro this week, the temperatures have been in the single digits. Under cloudy skies, it is a gray, dull, and dismal world. My response to this is to wear bright colors–a robin’s egg blue shirt, some days even purple and gold, tomorrow, my bright red tie with gold dragons. Color is how we strike back at the grayness.

A long time ago, I went through a period when I had a huge amount of black in my wardrobe. Like so many sophomoric college students, I wore black, because it reflected my cool nihilism. My favorite article of clothing was a huge Navy Lt. Commander’s great-coat we had acquired for a play that had an SS officer in it. It was huge, double-breasted, navy wool serge, hand tailored, and intimidating (occasionally, it also served as a blanket or a tent).
I named in Bazarov after Turgenev’s nihilist character in Fathers & Sons, one of my favorite Russian novels.

Then, I went through a series of experiences that showed 21-as-far-as-I-know-the-only-painting-of-me....jpgme more darkness, pain, and meaninglessness than my nihilistic poser mind could have ever imagined.

On the other side, I wore color–bright, loud primary colors.
I decorated Bazarov with Mardi-Gras beads and a pocket watch on the shoulder epaulets and wore a royal blue wide brimmed fedora.

The world is a gray, dark, cold, and dreary place, both symbolically and literally; it needs all the color it can get.
Why not wear purple? Why not red? Why not yellow pants and a green t-shirt? Why not a bright red bow tie and a blue fedora?
Why not splash your yard and garden with bright lilies or red primroses or purple violets? Why not plant maples that will be an explosive orange or a burning red?
Why not add bright carrots and purple cabbage, or rich, royal beets and sweet potatoes or even splashes of saffron or sriracha?

It will color your world, and brighten your day.
I know that it will brighten mine just thinking of you.
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Alea Iacta Est

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Thanks to Wode Toad for his help with the classical Wode_on_sidewalk_after_closehistory & the Latin. This is one of those times when his work in the classical department at St Andrews comes in handy.

He seems to be restless and pre-occupied, though, of late, and talks of travelling).

In the winter of 49 BC, the Roman General Gaius Julius Caesar had decisions to make. He was camped on the edge of the icy Alps, looking south, across the river.
He had established a strong political base in Rome, then had become governor of the vercingetorix-jules-cesarvarious Roman provinces bordering the tribes in Gaul. The Gauls were the various Celtic Tribes who lived in what is now France, as well as parts of Switzerland and Germany (the Gauls in Galatia–in the Balkans–had been subdued by the Romans earlier). He countered a move by one tribe–the Helvetii–and through a series of quick and effective military maneuvers established control over all of Gaul (Omnia Gallia). The crown of this military campaign was the surrender of the Chieftain Vercingetorix on October 3rd in 51 BC.
Caesar, aware of the importance of media, wrote dispatches back to Rome detailing his campaign and his soldiers’ achievements. The work is in a simple andjules-cesar clear Latin prose, yet reads well–Gaius Julius Caesar is a vivid Storyteller, and his History of the Gallic Wars was popular at the time and made him a popular hero (It is still read; Wode remembers scrumping his uncle’s copy as a tad and following the military campaigns). As an encore, Caesar invaded Britain.
However, back in the senate–the body that ruled the Roman Republic–Caesar’s political power had begun to erode. Although Caesar had power (and troops) on the frontier in Gaul, Rome was controlled by supporters of his main rival–Pompey (Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus).
Julius Caesar was commanded by the Roman Senate to vacate his post and return to Rome.

The rule was that general could only lead troops–or even carry his own weapons–outside of the boundaries of the state of Rome itself, the northern boundary of which was the Rubicon river. To come armed beyond this point was an act of treason against the Republic of Rome, and a capital offense.
However, approaching Rome unarmed and alone left Caesar at the mercy of his accusers.
As the Roman historian Plutarch puts it:
“Caesar vaticanWhen he came to the river Rubicon, which parts Gaul within the Alps from the rest of Italy, his thoughts began to work, now he was just entering upon the danger, and he wavered much in his mind, when he considered the greatness of the enterprise into which he was throwing himself. He checked his course, and ordered a halt, while he revolved with himself, and often changed his opinion one way and the other, without speaking a word. This was when his purposes fluctuated most; presently he also discussed the matter with his friends who were about him, (of which number Asinius Pollio was one,) computing how many calamities his passing that river would bring upon mankind, and what a relation of it would be transmitted to posterity.”

So there he is.
At the edge of a river, just out of the Alps, in the ice of January, he is hesitating. 400 horsemen and 5000 legionnaires are waiting for his choice, all of Rome is waiting for his choice. A life of forced retirement is facing him if he goes on unarmed, and either death and humiliation or survival rises before him if he takes his army across the river.
He waits, wavering, hesitating, shivering, trying to decide.

Suddenly, he makes up his mind.
He stands up.
He looks south, across the river, and says:
“alea iacta est“–“the die is cast.”
He leads his troops across the river, into Rome, and into history.

Decisions are unavoidable.
Usually, the choices are all a mixed bag, but to not make them is the worst of all.
Julius Caesar was victorious, but his victory would lead to his death 2 years later (and the end of the Republic). To decide is to cast the dice irrevocably, to take a step into the icy waters of the Rubicon.
To live heroically is to accept the responsibility, to embrace the possibility of defeat, but to march on.
Life is uncertain

Descartes and the beginning of Modern thought

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Descartes, René 1596-1650It is one of the marks of a great teacher that he or she equips us to move beyond his or her lessons, even if that means that in the rear-view mirror the teacher’s ideas may seem wrong, misguided, or even foolish. I do not particularly like his philosophy, but I have to acknowledge that René Descartes is that kind of thinker–he changed the landscape of our minds.

Let me start with a story:
Imagine the time period around 1619, 1620 or so. A lot of Europe is still medieval–Kings, Knights, Serfs–even the Holy Roman Empire (as either Voltaire or my Mom quipped: “neither Holy, nor Roman, nor an Empire”). Some parts of Europe are moving beyond that–Empires are grabbing land across the Atlantic, The Renaissance has happened in Italy (and beyond!). Nikolai Kopernik (Copernicus) has already published–posthumously–and Galileo has galleopublished, but then recanted and denied it all in order to avoid becoming posthumous.

Most importantly, Luther attempted to convince the Church to return to its faith, and–inadvertently–started a religious revolution, the Protestant Reformation. With that, with his “Here I stand,” he also challenged the authority of traditions.
This was also the beginning of a long series of religious wars and persecutions and would flow across Europe for the next 100 or more years.

Descartes remained a faithful Catholic, at least nominally, and, as far as we know, sincerely as well. As a young man needing to make his way in the world, looking for adventure, having a good education and a great aptitude towards mathematics–both theoretical and applied–Descartes became a military engineer. Much of his career Battle of White Mountainhere is vague, but he was attached to armies which saw a lot of the most brutal fighting in Europe.
Most notably, his division was at the Battle of White Mountain in Bohemia, where 4,000 Protestants were killed or wounded.

What we have is a bright, sensitive young man, raised as a good, and slightly idealistic, Christian boy, a well-mannered Frenchman, suddenly slogging across Europe in all kinds of weather, watching a war unfold  that started for noble, clear moral reasons, but, as is inevitable, degenerated into the messy brutal thing which war is. He saw men die–of bullets, of artillery, of swords and pikes, of infection and disease. He would have seen villages destroyed, crops burnt or stolen, women raped, children starving.
He came back to the cleaned up salons of Paris, where bright people had effervescent conversations about vital matters, and threw skepticism and doctrine about like toys. He set to writing, looking for the clarity of math and the sciences in a very uncertain world, and trying to salvage certainty.

None of that appears in his writings.

What does appear is a few nights in November of 1619, when Descartes was stuck in a house in Neuburg an der Donau, Germany, sitting by the big stove, thinking and writing. He invented Analytic Geometry, but he also devised a method of logic by which to Georges_de_La_Tour_010ascertain truth. He understood that some of what he knew was either false or unreliable, which made all he knew suspect, and he resolved to test all of his certainties, finding they were all doubtable except one, his own existence. Since he was doubting, there had to be a he who doubted, so he must exist (“I think, therefore I am”). From there he slowly proves his way back to the world, and to God.

All of Cartesianism is fairly involved, but what makes him the “Father of Modern Philosophy,” and one of the first modern thinkers are several things, two of which I’d like to discuss: All truth is subject to proof, rather than simply being accepted from tradition and authority, and the mind and the body are fundamentally different.

To me, it is important to remember that this Copernican shift from tradition and ancient authority to proof and individual conviction was undertaken to defend Descartes’ faith. This shift in philosophy is not an attack upon the Church; it is an attempt to return to certainty after the Church’s failure. Although Medieval Christendom produced some great thinkers, it was hobbled by a corrupt power structure which failed on many levels–one of them the spiritual; the Reformation was a reaction to that failure. The religious wars of the Reformation weakened the “Blessed Assurance” further, so that Humanists like Descartes, Montesquieu, Hobbes or Locke were obliged to look elsewhere.

But finally, Descartes’ contention that the self which thinks, and which can be certain, and which can know, is fundamentally different from the frame that sustains it. Whether Mountain Time 5 shadowor not we believe this, this remains a fundamental way in which our thinking is cast–that my mind and my self are radically different from these 170 pounds of bone, nerve, muscle and sinew, organs–both my own and borrowed–which I seem to inhabit. We think of our body as something (thing? how can the doctor say thing?) we are in, not something we are. It is a wet machine useful for sustaining the mind and for the mind to use, but the mind is other.

This is unacceptable.
The scars on my skin, flesh, bone and nerve are as much me as memories and dreams. The joy of touch and taste is joy for me–regardless of whether I call it skin or sensation or heart or mind. I am my body, but my body is so much more than a complex machine, just as the universe is so much more than the brass model Galileo built.
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Creativity

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As a child, I lived in a great big gray apartment building.
Ulmenweg 4It wasn’t one of those terribly drab Warsaw-Pact Blocks, or one of the horrifying projects in North America, but it was a 1972 apartment building–16 floors, 6 apartment a floor, and the outside mostly slate concrete and river pebble accents.
Inside, the walls were a chalky white paint with a matte finish.
The floors were mostly industrial gray linoleum tile, except for the parquet floor in the living room and the white tile in the bathroom.

My mother found it oppressive.
The unbroken gray floors and brilliant white walls glared at us all cold and sterile. Die erde dreht sichWall after wall, down the hall, the same chalky white.
My mother complained about it–not a lot, but we were in no doubt how she felt about it.
In the living room and bedrooms, she covered the floors with throw-rugs, and hung pictures and posters, but down the hall, the chalky cold white walls resisted any warm color and stubbornly refused to make the place a home.

With some mothers, there would have just been a lot of complaining; my mother bought 4 cans of paint: brown, green, red, and a little black.
As I watched on in disbelief, she walked up to the front hallway, and painted the brown trunk, green leaves, and red apples of an apple tree–outlining and shading a bit with the black.
I stared.
Mom's Apple TreeShe would have hung hooks in the branches for our coats, but the concrete under the white paint proved too hard to drill.

This whole thing

blew       my        mind.

It had never occurred to me that a grown-up would solve a problem by just going out and doing something crazy like this. Splashing paint on the wall! It amazed me–facing a problem down and responding by drawing a mural!
Kids my age were pretty whiney, and unimaginative, and pretty much accepted the world as it was, but here was an adult, facing something that drove her nuts head on, and attacking it with craziness and creativity.

This sort of thing is actually pretty typical of my mom.
She faces a problem, complains about it a little (sometimes a lot), then she tries to come up with a solution that is creative and constructive. Although she is occasionally let down, my mom believes that most problems can be solved with prayer, kindness, hard work, and creativity.

That may be naïve, but I still find it amazing.
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Care

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When I am not at the Bistro or my other two jobs, I live with a misanthropic dog.
It’s not entirely true that he doesn’t like people; he likes people, but is not very good at liking.
Mickey also growls at and bites people.Mickey on chair 001
There are folks who think that dogs are good judges of character; he is not. He has bitten some of the best people I know. People see him and say, “Oh! He’s so cute! Is he sweet?” No. He isn’t. It is just a matter of time before he snaps at you.
Vets insist he be muzzled and sometimes even drugged before they will examine him.

Mickey is a Cairn Terriorist.

He seems to hate most people, but he loves me.
He still bites me occasionally, but usually I bite him back, and I weigh 150 pounds more than he does.
I also growl and bark more loudly.

Because he is unpredictable and vicious, he is often called “Stupid Dog!” but he is not. He is quite smart–not wise, but clever.
Once, when we were taking care of a golden retriever, the two of them were completing for my attention. Biscuit won by sitting on me–all 200 pounds of him. Mickey stared at him a minute, then walked into another room, and came back carrying a tennis ball in his mouth. He looked at Biscuit for a moment, then he flicked his head, tossing the tennis ball into the next room. Biscuit bounded off after it, and Mickey quietly took his place.

Mickey was a stray when we got him.
He appears to have been on the road for quite a while–his claws were worn down, and he had at least 4 intestinal parasites. He has an odd kink in his tail, so I think it was broken at some point. He will never allow anyone to touch his tail, in fact, he will turn with a furious snarl if startled from the back, sometimes even if touched anywhere near his haunches.

I put up with him; in fact, I’m rather fond of him, but I accept that Mickey on Round Bald (2)his affection will not come when I choose, but rather when he chooses. I wonder what happened in the two or three years before I knew him. I wonder if he chose to run away from something, I wonder what broke his tail and stiffened that hip. I assume he has his reasons for his fear and anger; sometimes, they catch up to him in his nightmares, or during storms and loud noises.

I will never know; he is a dog and can never tell me his history.
Yet he does have one.

I don’t have to understand him to care for him.
I just have to care, and to be there with food, water, play, companionship, long walks on the AT. and a lap for naps.
It’s actually better if I know I don’t understand him, and I don’t make any assumptions or have expectations.
I just have to read his mood right now.

He doesn’t really understand me either, and he knows this.
Yet he is fond of me.

He doesn’t have to be sweet for me to care for him. His unpredictability and lack of insight don’t remove my responsibility to care for him, rather they make it stronger.
After all, we humans should be the understanding creatures.
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The Doctor hates endings.

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Europe 2013 321I strongly dislike closed doors.

I tend to leave hallway doors and office doors open, and even closets and cabinets; I simply dislike the idea of a door being closed. I even dislike closed windows, and will open them whenever I can; related to this, I dislike curtains.
Neurotically, I tend to not close bottles & jars.

An open door is a sign of freedom, but, even more, a sign of possibility, of infinite new Tout est Possible Paris (2)paths waiting to be explored. An open door implies new roads and new discoveries. An open door is freedom. Even if you don’t walk through it, an open door means you could walk through it if you chose to. An open door is the closest I am able to come to hope.

I dislike goodbyes, or any kind of ending.

A goodbye is always a loss, because it closes off possibilities and certainties that once were and now are not, and, perhaps, never more will be. I dislike being left behind, but—just as much–I dislike leaving. I am generally late because I can never actually leave a place.

I dislike endings in general.

However, I do recognize that endings are necessary to beginnings.
I wish I philosophical enough to convince my heart that that each ending is a new beginning, but it doesn’t feel that way. Regardless of what my mind may say, to my heart each ending feels like…..