PART 4: Anger and Alternatives,

This book makes me angry.

To be Crystal Clear: I am angry at the book and the ideas and the morality it espouses (what the book presents as virtuous or not),  I am not angry at people, I wish all people happy lives full of art and failure and meaning. You are beautiful, make the world a better place. My anger is personal, and subjective, and says more about me than it does about the book. What I care about mapped onto what I think the book cares about.

And as an aside: Thank you for this opportunity. Sincerely.  It is rare that I feel anger, and it is even rarer that I feel safe sharing it (especially on the internet). I realize that this might surprise some, given my emotionally charged avalanche of commentary with the tone of a fervent tweet, But I engage rarely and carefully. I have real skin in the game, That's my name up there. Hi.

Also, REDACTED mentioned during the livestream that an alternative philosophy would be more interesting than a takedown (ie, instead of nitpicking the ideas, make something). SHOW ME WHAT YOU GOT.  Deal. Let's do that also, Let's make something.

Two parts then:
1. Why does this book make me angry?
2. REDACTED's Theory of Dualistic Metaphysics
   *Or: How Two Connected Definable Concepts are Better than One Undefineable Concept*

Ok, let's get the uncomfortable part over with. The Angry Part.

## Content Warning ##

This is personal and emotional, feel free to skip it if yuo are not up for that.  I mention abuse and when it comes to my strong feelings about the book, the gloves come off. I am not delicate and the reaction is far more emotional than logical. It gets shouty.

## Content Warning ##

Ok, here we go.

The main reason that it makes me angry is that I have a lot in common with this book and its protagonist/villain, so it pushes my buttons more than it would others,  

I grew up in Montana, and I went to college at REDACTED, the same school Persig taught at (though after he was teaching there).  I started in Philosophy, then switched to Religious Studies, then Engineering, then Computer Science, then I dropped out to work in the first dotcom boom. As I progressed through majors, I kept taking Philosophy and Religious Studies and Engineering classes because I loved ideas.

During this period in my life, I was an insufferable intellectual pedant. My sister sent me a poem during this period because it reminded her of me.  It is called "Pedantic Literalist" by Marianne Moore.  It is a short and accurate depiction of the person I was.

Here it is: https://www.poetrynook.com/poem/pedantic-literalist

That was me.

I wasn't lonely though, I had friends and relationships and hobbies and adventures and fun times. I was blithely unaware of how far up my own ass I was. I would get into a discussion with a stranger about something and it would often end with them furious at me, and I was baffled. I remember one time when I got into a discussion about rehabilitative vs punitive justice with a nice friend of a friend and after about an hour she had to leave because she was so mad at me. This shocked me, I was having a good time. I was oblivious to the state of mind of other people.  I didn't really listen to them. I would lecture to them, My ideas were better ideas. I was relentlessly interruptive.

I was convinced that I was the smartest person in the room. Every time Phaedrus' towering intellect is described by Persig, it pushes my button.  If it is framed as a failure, that's a TOTALLY different experience, because it IS a failure. But if it is framed as virtuous (which it is in the book), nah man.  It took me years to recover from that insufferable superiority,

By spring semester of my Junior Year, I had lost all respect for academia. All the stuff in the book about the frustrations of academia,  could have been my biography. That bit in the book where he writes out his gleeful contempt for esthetics? I did that too. My last philosophy class was Philosophy of Art, and my final act of contempt was to scribble curt responses to each of the essay questions, fold the exam paper into an origami cube, and drop it on the professor's desk like a mic-drop. And then everyone clapped. r/thathappened...

Lol, no. Nobody gave a shit. They didn't care, it was a petulant and disrespectful act by a Pedantic Literalist. This is one of my big shameful Failures (see my Part III essay about Stuckness for more on that). My professor was a nice guy who was paid a pittance to teach children like me to give a shit about ideas. He did not deserve my disrespect. I learned a lot from this failure, and my guess is that he doesn't remember it at all.

The book frames this insulting tantrum as a hilarious takedown, It's just mean.  Button pushed.

After the dotcom boom, I couldn't find work, and I went back to REDACTED to start over, go back to school, try to recover some of my karmic debt.  I ended up working in Neuroscience and then Research Computing at REDACTED for ten years, some of the best years of my life.  I worked with teachers and students.  I got deep into the complicated world of post-secondary education, and the amazing people who choose to teach in spite of the soul crushing bureaucracy. Every time Phaedrus "dunks" on academia with his naive reductive takes, Button Is Pushed.

I met my wife, had two kids, figured out how to adult and be responsible for other people. I went to therapy. I went to work on myself. I came out of this period a completely different person. I still loved ideas (and still do!) but my values were totally overhauled. I cared about other people. I knew that I was more often wrong than right.  I learned the inestimable value of Failure. I was a genuinely better person.

I have continued this work of self-knowledge and self-improvement to this day. It is my life's work, it is complicated and messy, punctuated by Failure and beauty.  This work is never done. My philosophy of life is a side-effect of this work, not its goal. My goal is to know myself better so as to be a good person ON THE SIDE OF ART. Everything else is a side-effect of that. The casual dismissal of the hard work of being a responsible adult... Button FUCKING Pushed.

It makes me angry that Persig has it backwards. Understanding and goodness don't come from an undefineable mystical concept. Working towards being a better person ON THE SIDE OF ART will. You don't want to go farther up your own arrogant metaphysical ass, you want to understand why that is so important to you in the first place. The answer is inside you, and it's not metaphysical.

It makes me angry that Persig focuses on the primacy of an undefinable Quality instead of the hard work of Failing and Care and talking to other people. Learning from other people. You don't need to be a motorcycle expert. We should celebrate the expertise of others, you don't have to do it alone. It doesn't make you a low Quality person (whatever the fuck that means). Different people are good at different things. when we celebrate the expertise of others, we can cooperate, we can work together. We can ask for help. We can be good people ON THE SIDE OF ART. Share your pain (consensually). Listen to other people.  You are more wrong about the world than you think. None of this is called out in this book. The Guiding Principal of this book, the holiest of holies, is undefinable an unactionable.  It means everything and nothing. It does not help you to learn about yourself or communicate with others.

It makes me angry because this is NOT a story of philosophical discovery buried in a dysfunctional family road trip.  It is a how-to guide for Pedantic Intellectual Assholes to excuse their awful behavior because it is in the service of a greater good. They can declare literally anything to be Quality because it is undefinable. It is your fault if you "don't get it" because "everyone can detect Quality." They can justify any of your behaviors or ideas or belongings as being "low Quality", and if they are charismatic and convincing enough, it is true! There is NO WAY for you to determine what does or does not have Quality because it is undefinable. But it is The Most Important Thing, it underlies everything, it's more important than feelings or desires or suffering. It is Quality.  It is all that matters. It is the ultimate abusive tool and it. makes. me. angry because it comes disguised in good vibes and impressive intellectual bullshit. Lots of "mic drop" moments and dunking on "low Quality" things like people who live in cities or "squares" or National Parks.  FUCK YOU AND YOUR TRASH BOOK.  

OK! Ok. ok. that is enough anger for 2022.

I think I have made my point. I think I got it all out.  This is a weird thing to do in public. I hope it didn't bother anyone too much.

To re-clarify: This is my subjective experience. My emotional response based on my unique path through life. My Failures, and my attention, and my strong opinions. It may not be yours, and I do celebrate that.  If it brings you joy and clarity, there are few finer things in life. Please, continue.

I have to take a break now though, I will present my Alternative later. Probably at ~4:30AM EST if it follows the same pattern as the last few.

transition

if you pay attention, you can hear the sizzle of the tobacco as you pull on the cigarette, even if it is old and stale.

they sat in a room, timed maybe to the minute of the burn, a week since. the pain was palpable.  the awkwardness of ending something that had already ended, acknowledging something that was plain and yet invisible.  the room had gotten too small for even an elephant to fit. it was over, but no one had the strength to say it.

what do you want to do?

*silence*

well, there is only two things we can do.  keep doing what we have done, or break up.

*silence*

a tongue of fire licks at the night sky, the breath of twinkling orange embers hot in the air.  it is too large to even understand. i can only feel a sort of resignation that things must be as they are.  to deny it is to deny life or existence. i must be happy with a lie or live with the pain of truth.

defenses kick in.  formal speech. alcohol.  nicotine.  i mutter to myself, arguing, point and counter point, i already know that this had to happen, but the pain is so acute, i can't but doubt my decisions.

are you sure?

no.  i'm not sure of anything.  but i think it's the right thing to do.

*chime*

a text message.  does this suck as bad for you as it does for me?  yes, yes, a thousand times yes, but: this is the most that it can ever suck, i reply.  the only thing that i know of that is appropriate to say is: i'm sorry.

i'm sorry.

so inadequate, so the only thing that is really true in the roiling problem of my thoughts and emotions.

i'm sorry.

fears, resolutions, grief and nonsense.  the fire didn't care at all.  the world and universe don't care at all.  what did each pair of shiny eyes see in that flame? whatever they needed to.  i saw resolution. that it must be as it is. that what i wrote on wood was as true as i could make it.  regret.  so much fail. no anger, just sorrow.  guilt.  washed, charred and shrugged away by heat.  too hot for tears to live, but room enough for pain.

i can only hope that nestled in this hot ash is something new.  something inevitable. something good.

i fucking hope so.

they sat around a wooden table. it was old and soft, creased with experience.

maggie milley molly and may went out to the sea to play one day, and died.

karl kept a loaded gun at his right side and dog biscuits in his pocket because you never know. he smells like old spice and looks about five years older than he is. what some would call worn, others would call rugged.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it, in a brown paper bag.

michael is happy when things go his way. he has a vicious fury when they do not. he keeps an incisive tongue, he knows it and relishes the chance to use it. he is all angles. he has blonde hair. he loves to follow orders, just as he loves to give them. he reveres loyalty. he loathes creativity.

it is at moments after i have dreamed, of beating and bludgeoning

eric lies to himself. his twists of logic are a skein of clever knots. he can convince himself of anything. he is also a lover. he likes the sharpness and roughness of men, the opposites of women. he likes to tell people what they want to hear.

they call snuff "snus" in sweden. they call abuse "discipline" in africa.

my lip has a scar, they call it a harelip. i looked it up when i was in school, i'd not thought to care before. it's called that because it makes you look like a rabbit. i don't think i look much like a rabbit. but rabbits are lucky, i guess. my mom told me it was a mark from god, a touch that said i was special. marque du lapin, she'd call it.

mostly i travel. it's not very special. i'm not very special. i don't feel special. i hurt a lot. i drink more. i snort snuff that comes in tins with cursive writing.

i like bar bathrooms. they stink, but i collect them like pretty stones. one i remember had chalkboard walls where you could write what you wanted everywhere. one was just a porn covered closet in the corner of the room. a piss trough was a special win.

one bar rigged the piss trough so that one end could be opened up. then you could just use a mop to shove the puke and cigarette butts into a trash bucket on the floor. two toilet stalls, lots of room to mop out. a practical bathroom. but not much room for wall scrawl.

the lucky star had a shitty bathroom. only one urinal, one toilet... everyone has their elbow in your face. the sink sprays water on your crotch. but the crappy old paint was a perfect surface for scribbles. years of scrawl all over it. like an archaeologist i would stand in there with my drink and read and read.

the bathroom scrawls can be the best thing about a bar. you can be fighting the momentum of life one gulp at a time (just slow the fuck down), but it's not working and it just seems to be going faster and faster. you bag off to the pisser and let out a stream of pent liquid. it's palpable, you feel better already. you pore over the walls, racism, sexism, vicious desperation, empty fury. they don't do any better, flailing out at their inevitable end. or completely oblivious to it.

there was a guy named karl who was huge. is huge. he's in jail now. he was so fucking big, in every way. i think he'd been big since he was really young, and he was used to being unstoppable. he didn't know what no meant. he didn't know what it was like to be intimidated. he didn't have to be smart, so he wasn't. he raped a girl and killed her brother, then he went to jail.

i think about him when i want to be powerful. it stops me wanting. i make do with other kinds of markers. other ways to do to the world what god did to me. i find a corner in the bathroom and scrawl a crouched rabbit, black sharpie lines like chinese brushwork. it's like he knows there's a hawk out there, and if he just stays still enough, maybe it won't see him. maybe he can just keep living one more minute or one more day before he gets noticed. hold on rabbit. hold onto every fucking moment because before you know it, it's gone.

next to my apartment (I lived in 1-C and they were in 1-B) there was a jew family. Their kid was in a wheelchair. I felt really bad for them, I felt really bad for him, actually. He had milky skin and greenish eyes, but he could only loll his head around. I mean, I knew he could do more than that. He could think and be alive and feel like the whole world was a painting of a place he would rather be... but, all he could do was rock his head around and flutter his hands kind of like flags.

he liked to sit on the sidewalk. in his chair. he would look at the little tree that grew out of the metal grate next to the street. it had tangled bark, seams that looked like a hundred suicide attempts. a weary gathering of leaves clung lazily to the bony branches. they were more grey than brown, more dusty than mossy. it was not a cozy tree.

i imagine that he talked to the little tree. his head rolled back and forth. his tongue a traitor. his muscles obeying only as much as they have to, djinns fulfilling disrespected wishes. he hates thinking about how he can't do what he wants. it's an old desire, turned curled and frustrated.

he's stronger than you are. he's lived and loved. without legs and arms, with pained looks from people, quick glances away when they think he is looking at him. he sees all of that. he knows, in every way, how his body is broken. you have no fucking idea where your edges are. he knows them intimately.

his mind is a green field with fat trees. wide branches with too many leaves, thick with bees and dragonflies. it smells like loam and fresh rain. A man holds a woman in the shade, hands stroke planes and curves. He loves her, and she him. She loves the idea of him, and he loves that she sees him when she closes her eyes. she smells savory, like heat and spice. he closes his eyes and presses his head to hers and inhales.

He runs his hand under his thighs and feels the welt that the seat presses into his legs. He can't feel it in his legs, but his left hand is pretty good. it feels like a seam. like some foreign dead weight has been sewn onto his body. He jerks his head to look up into the slate sky. He thinks it will rain, though he can't tell anyone that. Without his reader it would just sound like slurred nonsense. He likes rain.

So does the tree.

there is a story to be told about a girl with a troubled heart and a boy on a quest for his own spine. i should begin, but it is too windy and dark outside.

all i know (now) is that she hates him. she hates him and loves him. and as for him, he needs to be stricken. so that he knows that he has no spine, and then knows he must search for it, or he cannot inherit his kingdom. i'm not sure how this will be wrought. i will make every effort to be honest, to hold back no shred of feeling for the both of them. i want them laid bare.

i think her name is asha. his name is ben.

they met... no. their meeting isn't important. only that they have known each other.

he makes her happy, but happy and confused. she, in her confusion, opens him wide. he, only later, will probe his wounds and discover that his spine (assumed entirely intact) is not there. then he must seek it. and she must knit her heart.

there must be trials for them both. not with each other. she will meet an oak tree, and he will fight a dead witch. or maybe she will fight and he will meet. i'm not sure. shit, maybe the story is about the tree and the witch. all this remains to be seen.

stay tuned.

i went looking for the post that i thought i wrote when i founded this blog. as it turns out, it doesn't exist.

so let me be brief.

this is a place that i created to let myself go. a place where i could write only for myself. but then i told someone who i knew that it existed. and another. now, i can count the number of people who know the face behind this blog on one hand. so it's not public knowledge, many of my best friends know nothing of it. it's not something that i do lightly. but i don't want this to be some kind of private diary. that's not what it's about.

but now... lately, my writing has been terrible. really bad. and i think it's because i am writing for an audience. and i believe deeply that to be a good writer, a really good one, you can't be writing for anyone. so this shit stops now. we're getting back to the center, back to the source.

this is a place for me to be whatever i feel. it may be ugly, pretty, mean, kind, whatever. i will say things that i would never say in meatspace. i will be many people. i will explore what i think it is to be human.

you will know when i fail, it will be painfully obvious. and i will fail a lot. but don't hold me (my person) to this. that's not what it's for. it's a window into me (or maybe the window i look out of), but it is not me. if you know me (my person), and don't want to read this (because it may be very ugly), then please don't.

to do this right, i cannot give a shit. and i will not hold back.