Eight thirty five.
The sun is out this morning. Although it says it’s freezing, the roads are wet and not icy. Yesterday I did a lot of caffeine, and during the night I read back my journal notes since a month ago. A pattern emerged in my writing, basically a theme of skepticism that started with reading Montaigne’s “Apology for Raimond Sebond” from a sourcebook in philosophy edited by Richard Popkin. It kind of messed with my mind to call my knowledge of reality into question. Skepticism is like making notes with an eraser, rubbing out what is known rather than affirming it positively. Thus, I’m probably getting in over my head with the philosophical stuff, almost like being on drugs or something. Instead of unveiling the truth, philosophy adds obscurity to the endeavor.
Ten fifty.
I got a call from my sister, so we rambled for quite a while. But now I’m rather glad the conversation is done and I can be myself again… So what’s the point in doing philosophy if it’s that impractical? Somehow it makes me feel good to indulge in abstractions, but I have to admit that philosophy leads you nowhere except to more philosophy. A person does better to believe in common sense realism than to lose herself in pointless epistemology.
Twelve thirty.
I remember feeling like a useless human being 35 years ago when I led a rock trio that met for practice in Harrisburg. I was only good for music and academics, especially literature and philosophy, and had no aptitude for practical things at all. My head was in the clouds at all times. Something about today brings it all back to me, and it’s sort of uncomfortable.
I think I spend too much time alone…