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…



Three o’clock AM.

We’re in the middle of a storm of wind and rain. I’ve been sleeping poorly tonight, I don’t know why. Monday was such a nothing kind of day, everyone exhausted from all the holiday hype, now finally over with. We go through this bs every year but no one can explain why. Probably we’ll keep doing the same thing for years hence. But nature doesn’t care about our rituals, therefore the windstorm howling in the night. As if to echo the storm, you can hear a train horn moaning long and mournfully like a whale in the deep sea. The air catches the sound and carries it, buffeting and smudging it as it does. The medium of air is like that of the sea for sound waves, only the sea takes them farther. The song of a humpback can be heard for miles away. There was a break in the weather, but now the rain renews itself, and I know that my writing is as solitary as the whale and his faraway song.


Eight o’clock.

I ran into Scott the cab driver at the market a half hour ago. He was checking his lottery tickets for a win. Also there was a gas station attendant behind me in line, and I saw a few women there. The clouds were beautiful, white, gray, and peach, as if painted by an artist. I stopped in the middle of the street to look at them. The book of Nature may have an author, as people believed in the Renaissance. It would be difficult to say for sure. Though it was 46 degrees out, the ambience felt mellow and inviting. One young student rode an electric scooter on her way to the middle school, crossing Maxwell Road and south on N Park. I saw a nice looking young woman walking her dog on the sidewalk… The other day I cut the conversation with my sister a bit short, though I’m not certain why. Maybe I was thinking that it’s impossible for us to go back to the way things were. Most decisions are irrevocable. This is today and not twenty years in the past, and time goes in one direction only. It seems like everyone is sort of wrapped up in himself. Occasionally we need to pause to admire the skyline. 


Warning ⚠️: Sexual content

Nine o’clock 🕘. From something T— said it sounds like he’s a virgin. He sounds inexperienced with sexual nuts and bolts, just the rudiments that give a man an erection. He lacks this much self knowledge, whereas I’ve seen a lot more of life than he has. Maybe he won’t know anything until he gets married. I’m a little embarrassed for him and his overrated religion which precludes the human experience we all deserve to know. Or maybe I should feel embarrassed for myself for not being chaste and innocent? Sheryl didn’t know anything about male sexuality either. I can’t think of anyone who does know besides me. Rather than keep looking for external verification of what I know about myself, I should just act based on my own experience. It seems to me that human beings are losing touch with their instincts, which would be a very sad condition for humankind. D H Lawrence could have predicted a day such as this. Or perhaps I’m just alone with the knowledge that I have of sexual stuff. I know that my sister is a complete prude, denouncing anything remotely sexual, and maybe that’s why she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. This makes me feel ashamed of myself a bit, or should I condemn her for being cold as an icicle? It is strange to be ostracized over sexuality, but then she got a divorce over something sexual. I guess I’m willing to accept my solitude with the truth I possess. But it still feels awfully strange…