My friend Flossie writes:
I've read your blog, Peter, with interest. The stories are better than the treatises, I think, less didactic--though it's a persistent temptation for you, I remember. Still, the core idea that 2nd person encounters are the units of value in life is hard to swallow. It would mean that we'd have to approach the world in a sort of epistolatory manner (much as I like to do) rather than the normal 3rd person way we do when we review the events of the day lying in bed as I like to do. As a mode of address, it seems sort of intrusive, like going up to people you meet on the street, extending a hand, and introducing yourself. It happened a couple of times to me in Huntsville. Once it was man who lived with his parents and made a practice of roaming the streets all day looking for people to talk to. The other time was Knox, who later became my boyfriend. He said afterward that he'd never done it before or after, but why should I believe someone as crazy as him.
Anyway, I've found out something about my other roommate, the elusive biker, with the long beard and small brimmed cap. He's a bike mechanic, and a fanatic on the subject. All I'd done is admire his bike and he proceeded to point out all the subtle (invisible I'd say to anyone but another like him) modifications he'd made to improve its performance. He's training for race certification and wants to take me to one of his meets. He gets particularly passionate about cyclocross, which is a fall and winter sport, so his calendar is really full for the next few months, but, he asks, would I like to see a race. He gave me a powerful picture of mud covered people toiling up mucky slopes with their bikes on their backs. I wondered to mysef, as he expanded on the subject to me sitting on the bottom stair, where he would tuck his magnificent beard in such a situation. The whole scene made me think of Woodstock: the crowds, the colorful clothes, the mud--but without the mud.
How is running in this heat? I prefer getting my exercise at night dancing, but you love punishing yourself. What's your crime? Surely, you've expiated it by now. Speaking of sticky, I read in Kierkegaard this line: 'I stick my finger into existence and it smells of nothing.' He goes on to talk about all the questions he has for which I can find no answers, but the line itself has an off-color vividness that takes my mind in all sorts of directions. At very least, I've added to the list of useful things index fingers can do besides point and prod, etc. 'Prehistoric man used his finger as a chemical testing tool...' Rather than down on all fours snuffing, I can quickly swipe and sniff.
Silly musings. Anyway I'm off to introduce my MIT studaholics to beercan chicken.
I've read your blog, Peter, with interest. The stories are better than the treatises, I think, less didactic--though it's a persistent temptation for you, I remember. Still, the core idea that 2nd person encounters are the units of value in life is hard to swallow. It would mean that we'd have to approach the world in a sort of epistolatory manner (much as I like to do) rather than the normal 3rd person way we do when we review the events of the day lying in bed as I like to do. As a mode of address, it seems sort of intrusive, like going up to people you meet on the street, extending a hand, and introducing yourself. It happened a couple of times to me in Huntsville. Once it was man who lived with his parents and made a practice of roaming the streets all day looking for people to talk to. The other time was Knox, who later became my boyfriend. He said afterward that he'd never done it before or after, but why should I believe someone as crazy as him.
Anyway, I've found out something about my other roommate, the elusive biker, with the long beard and small brimmed cap. He's a bike mechanic, and a fanatic on the subject. All I'd done is admire his bike and he proceeded to point out all the subtle (invisible I'd say to anyone but another like him) modifications he'd made to improve its performance. He's training for race certification and wants to take me to one of his meets. He gets particularly passionate about cyclocross, which is a fall and winter sport, so his calendar is really full for the next few months, but, he asks, would I like to see a race. He gave me a powerful picture of mud covered people toiling up mucky slopes with their bikes on their backs. I wondered to mysef, as he expanded on the subject to me sitting on the bottom stair, where he would tuck his magnificent beard in such a situation. The whole scene made me think of Woodstock: the crowds, the colorful clothes, the mud--but without the mud.
How is running in this heat? I prefer getting my exercise at night dancing, but you love punishing yourself. What's your crime? Surely, you've expiated it by now. Speaking of sticky, I read in Kierkegaard this line: 'I stick my finger into existence and it smells of nothing.' He goes on to talk about all the questions he has for which I can find no answers, but the line itself has an off-color vividness that takes my mind in all sorts of directions. At very least, I've added to the list of useful things index fingers can do besides point and prod, etc. 'Prehistoric man used his finger as a chemical testing tool...' Rather than down on all fours snuffing, I can quickly swipe and sniff.
Silly musings. Anyway I'm off to introduce my MIT studaholics to beercan chicken.
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