Sunday, July 30, 2006

Impaired Vision

It is impossible to say "last week, this time, I was...", since I didn't have a Sunday last week.
The hole that has housed me the past seven days has a breathing terrace. More importantly, it has a vew. The spine of skyscrapers ending in the harbour bridge and the opera house. All laid out in an uninterrupted panorama.Flanking it are other terraces, much like the one I am on. With people on them, also enjoying the view, I suppose. And eating their dinner, like I am. Some wine. Some small talk. Smoking, maybe. Random church bells from somewhere that is not part of the view. I like rambling writing. Gives the illusion of being clever. I think on the whole, my ambitions far outpace my talents. I wonder how the real estate landscape would look like if the view ceased to be in the buyers' sights? The middle-of-things may become valuable. For all the talk on marginality, the periphery is still a privileged place to see the view. If only people could see that.
I had dinner for the first time on top of a hole. Tonight. Some stir-fry with rice. Enjoying the view. Eating out in the open that way, at sunset, surrounded by life scenes, I felt terribly alone. I am unsure if it was a good alone or a lonely alone. Only it wasn't unfamiliar. I suppose it is good to have travelled, and be travelling. Though I don't know if that makes me a traveller. Either way, so be it. I have this urge to fly a kite, the wind is perfect for that. I think of flying kites in the pols. How have I ended up here? What happens after an accident? I miss ___. I was going to write "you", but that has become problematic.

9 comments:

Anonymous said...

Sometimes when we are most alone (bad grammar?)we wish for a spectator, and that spectator could be our own self.

Anonymous said...

utter nihilism?

Harold Kumar said...

We probably desire the spectator always. It is in the absence of a spectator that we realize we are alone...no?

Anonymous said...

Personally, I'm just tickled with glee to be a voyeur.

ryan xo said...

Reeks of self reflexivity...uuughhh!

Anonymous said...

Thus ate Zarathustra by Woody Allen


There’s nothing like the discovery of an unknown work by a great thinker to set the intellectual community atwitter and cause academics to dart about like those things one sees when looking at a drop of water under a microscope. On a recent trip to Heidelberg to procure some rare nineteenth-century duelling scars, I happened upon just such a treasure. Who would have thought that “Friedrich Nietzsche’s Diet Book” existed? While its authenticity might appear to be a soupçon dicey to the niggling, most who have studied the work agree that no other Western thinker has come so close to reconciling Plato with Pritikin. Selections follow:
Fat itself is a substance or essence of a substance or mode of that essence. The big problem sets in when it accumulates on your hips. Among the pre-Socratics, it was Zeno who held that weight was an illusion and that no matter how much a man ate he would always be only half as fat as the man who never does push-ups. The quest for an ideal body obsessed the Athenians, and in a lost play by Aeschylus Clytemnestra breaks her vow never to snack between meals and tears out her eyes when she realizes she no longer fits into her bathing suit.
It took the mind of Aristotle to put the weight problem in scientific terms, and in an early fragment of the Ethics he states that the circumference of any man is equal to his girth multiplied by pi. This sufficed until the Middle Ages, when Aquinas translated a number of menus into Latin and the first really good oyster bars opened. Dining out was still frowned upon by the Church, and valet parking was a venal sin.
As we know, for centuries Rome regarded the Open Hot Turkey Sandwich as the height of licentiousness; many sandwiches were forced to stay closed and only reopened after the Reformation. Fourteenth-century religious paintings first depicted scenes of damnation in which the overweight wandered Hell, condemned to salads and yogurt. The Spaniards were particularly cruel, and during the Inquisition a man could be put to death for stuffing an avocado with crabmeat.
No philosopher came close to solving the problem of guilt and weight until Descartes divided mind and body in two, so that the body could gorge itself while the mind thought, Who cares, it’s not me. The great question of philosophy remains: If life is meaningless, what can be done about alphabet soup? It was Leibniz who first said that fat consisted of monads. Leibniz dieted and exercised but never did get rid of his monads—at least, not the ones that adhered to his thighs. Spinoza, on the other hand, dined sparingly because he believed that God existed in everything and it’s intimidating to wolf down a knish if you think you’re ladling mustard onto the First Cause of All Things.
Is there a relationship between a healthy regimen and creative genius? We need only look at the composer Richard Wagner and see what he puts away. French fries, grilled cheese, nachos—Christ, there’s no limit to the man’s appetite, and yet his music is sublime. Cosima, his wife, goes pretty good, too, but at least she runs every day. In a scene cut from the “Ring” cycle, Siegfried decides to dine out with the Rhine maidens and in heroic fashion consumes an ox, two dozen fowl, several wheels of cheese, and fifteen kegs of beer. Then the check comes and he’s short. The point here is that in life one is entitled to a side dish of either coleslaw or potato salad, and the choice must be made in terror, with the knowledge that not only is our time on earth limited but most kitchens close at ten.
The existential catastrophe for Schopenhauer was not so much eating as munching. Schopenhauer railed against the aimless nibbling of peanuts and potato chips while one engaged in other activities. Once munching has begun, Schopenhauer held, the human will cannot resist further munching, and the result is a universe with crumbs over everything. No less misguided was Kant, who proposed that we order lunch in such a manner that if everybody ordered the same thing the world would function in a moral way. The problem Kant didn’t foresee is that if everyone orders the same dish there will be squabbling in the kitchen over who gets the last branzino. “Order like you are ordering for every human being on earth,” Kant advises, but what if the man next to you doesn’t eat guacamole? In the end, of course, there are no moral foods—unless we count soft-boiled eggs.
To sum up: apart from my own Beyond Good and Evil Flapjacks and Will to Power Salad Dressing, of the truly great recipes that have changed Western ideas Hegel’s Chicken Pot Pie was the first to employ leftovers with meaningful political implications. Spinoza’s Stir-Fried Shrimp and Vegetables can be enjoyed by atheists and agnostics alike, while a little-known recipe of Hobbes’s for Barbecued Baby-Back Ribs remains an intellectual conundrum. The great thing about the Nietzsche Diet is that once the pounds are shed they stay off—which is not the case with Kant’s “Tractatus on Starches.”
Breakfast
Orange juice
2 strips of bacon
Profiteroles
Baked clams
Toast, herbal tea
The juice of the orange is the very being of the orange made manifest, and by this I mean its true nature, and that which gives it its “orangeness” and keeps it from tasting like, say, a poached salmon or grits. To the devout, the notion of anything but cereal for breakfast produces anxiety and dread, but with the death of God anything is permitted, and profiteroles and clams may be eaten at will, and even buffalo wings.
Lunch
1 bowl of spaghetti, with tomato and basil
White bread
Mashed potatoes
Sacher Torte
The powerful will always lunch on rich foods, well seasoned with heavy sauces, while the weak peck away at wheat germ and tofu, convinced that their suffering will earn them a reward in an afterlife where grilled lamb chops are all the rage. But if the afterlife is, as I assert, an eternal recurrence of this life, then the meek must dine in perpetuity on low carbs and broiled chicken with the skin removed.
Dinner
Steak or sausages
Hash-brown potatoes
Lobster thermidor
Ice cream with whipped cream or layer cake
This is a meal for the Superman. Let those who are riddled with angst over high triglycerides and trans fats eat to please their pastor or nutritionist, but the Superman knows that marbleized meat and creamy cheeses with rich desserts and, oh, yes, lots of fried stuff is what Dionysus would eat—if it weren’t for his reflux problem.
Aphorisms
l Epistemology renders dieting moot. If nothing exists except in my mind, not only can I order anything; the service will be impeccable.
l Man is the only creature who ever stiffs a waiter.
— The New Yorker

Toski said...

Anon, and NewYorker...never, EVER, has philosophy been this palatable!

Anonymous said...

LOL skidoo...shanks I reckon; and I hope duckface is equally entertained by the shout-out. Toodles!

Anonymous said...

That depends. Is there bashing involved?