I was drinking gin a few nights ago with a new friend and she asks, "Are you a psychiatrist?"
"No," I reply, "I'm a philosopher. But I tend bar at Lovejoy's in my spare time."
The great biologist, Larry Aumiller, thought I was in the psychiatry field after discussing the vagaries of love and strife on a beautiful morning walk from our camp to the McNeil River. We spent the rest of the long Alaskan July day photographing grizzly bears at close range that put us right smack in the food chain. And not at the top of it as we are usually accustomed to being. A sobering event in which to ponder the briefness of life if ever there was one. At one point two giants started to fight less then ten yards in front of me. I reassuringly glanced up at Larry who was on a higher platform behind a few of us. He had his rifle raised but the scuffle between the two four hundred pound animals quickly deescalated as they swam out to deeper water.
Later he joked about not being sure if the gun was loaded. At least I thought it was a joke. At dinner that night I wondered out loud if Larry would have shot those bears. After all, he had known them for almost twenty years of study. He knew their names and their mother’s names. In fact, he named them. He watched them grow up. He talked about what it was like in the Spring when an old bear wouldn’t return to the Falls. But instead dying over the winter in it’s cozy den. His sadness was sincere. So would he have shot one of his old friends? It wouldn’t be easy if they attacked one of us, my humorous guess would be it would be easier to shoot me. After all, he’d only known me a few days. He couldn’t have been that attached. Of course we never had to find out. And for the record there has never been an incident at The McNeil. Safety and routine have allowed the bears to become accustom to the limited presence of about sixty humans a summer, no more than eight at a time.
Hours later, after dinner, in my tent under the midnight sun, I heard a bear growl off in the distance before I dozed off into a very peaceful sleep. On the next day’s walk we resumed our conversation touching on the consolation that wildness affords and Nature’s power to heal. Long time themes of mine.
My introduction to philosophic thought started with Thoreau and Walden. A gift from a lovely friend when I was in high school. I still have that battered old copy she gave me on my shelf. That quickly led to Emerson. And you can’t read Emerson with out coming across his references to Plato, Voltaire, Montaigne, as well as the Greeks.
I would also have to add Jefferson, Adams, Madison, Paine, and Franklin as the earliest American philosophers. Remember, they started a revolution, a form of government and a country with their ideas born of deep thought.
Joseph Campbell opened my eyes to comparative religion studies. If ever there was a scholar who delved in to the beauty of mythology’s common themes it was Campbell. His writings on how to and why live the life of an artist are profound. Somehow we are all artists in a way whether we pursue it or not. Those who don’t pursue some form of art, and the paths are many, suffer an emptiness that can hinder a great deal of life’s pleasures. Once I thought about this I saw creativity everywhere. Not just in writing a song or a poem, or painting a picture or designing a building but in many smaller things that required attention to detail. Things like cooking a meal, hitting a golf ball, teaching, gardening, doing a magic trick, and so many other enterprises that require grace and concentration. This is art. And those who live without some sort of artistic expression are bereft of something fulfilling and life affirming. Even the tormented artist, it has been argued, would be worse off without the desire to express what is in their hearts. Campbell’s book Creative Mythology is a masterpiece and explains all this stuff brilliantly.
Another influence is A. C. Grayling, a modern and popular philosopher, whose books are packed with wisdom and wit. He takes on just about any subject and in short chapters dissects such topics as business ethics, equality, science, god, sex, public service, war, tolerance, and humanism and explains what they are and why they are important to our times. He should be required reading for politicians. Out of all his books I couldn’t pick a favorite.
Both Grayling and Campbell pointed me toward my reading of Epicurus, Lucretius, Empedocles and Seneca. All great proponents of the good life and how to enjoy its finest offerings. All argue for simplicity. Epicurus writes; “Against all else it is possible to provide security; but as far as death is concerned, we all dwell in an unfortified city.”
I looked hard at Buddhist philosophy and while I never practiced I gained a lot of wisdom from the teachings. The most powerful being the understanding of impermanence and how to cultivate a philosophy of non attachment. Which is much more difficult than it sounds. But I found that meditating on transience, things seem more precious, it makes beauty easier to see. Knowing that everything is going to (soon) dissipate and decay makes appreciating our situation and our loves all the more urgent.
I flirted around with Carl Jung for a while but I couldn’t quite agree with his theory of Synchronicity or his thoughts on the importance of dreams. While the inner life is certainly important we do actually have to live boldly in the outer world. I think Jung believed the opposite. But I keep his books around to help me feel connected to, or at least think about, the collective unconscious. It makes me feel less alone. Sometimes.
A night here of crazy thunder and lightning. Like a good old New England summer storm. I watched bolts hit the ocean for over an hour. The house shook and the lights flickered. Several bolts blazed horizontal over the water, something I’ve never seen before. Like Zeus wasn’t sure what he was aiming at so he just lit up the sky in general anger. It was a very impressive display. I turned off the music and just listened to the sky until the thunder tapered off and the rain stayed steady. Then we had a few minutes of cold hail. Its crashed against the side of the house with a fierce intensity. I stood out in it for a brief feel of the icy pellets against my face. Oddly refreshing but I chilled quickly and ran inside and put on a dry fleece. The girls across the street danced wildly in the deluge. My gorgeous friend stayed in drinking wine thinking I am silly. Perhaps I am.
If I ever get the chance to ask Richard Dawkins a question, maybe I’ll email him, I would ask, “What is the evolutionary benefit of heartache and heartbreak?” They both seem so useless for the mere reason that they take up so much thought and get in the way of everything from being productive to getting good sleep and having a healthy appetite. True heartbreak is debilitating. What purpose could it possible serve? Except maybe to let us know that parts of who we are are mysteries and we will never completely understand ourselves. We have desires that are foreign and complicated. And quite possibly detrimental to our wellbeing. But again, how did these emotions evolve and why have they lingered so long in humanity? Also I often wonder these days just how old do I have to be before I stop being distracted by young woman? Sometime soon I would guess. But, the magnificent poet, Jim Harrison, would surely have disagreed.
3/6 The beauty of the last two nights was the owl hooting from somewhere in the neighborhood. Tonight I got home around ten and walked over to listen to the surf and clear my head from one too many and contemplate the loss of yet another friend. In time I will have more to say about him (Peter) but for right now the rawness is surreal. How to find grace and solace in times of pain is what I’ve been thinking about for a very long time. And this week turned into one of those lessons. I read some from a book we both enjoyed and drank a wine he liked, opening it with a corkscrew he gifted me. But none of that really helped. The hooting owl offered a moment of, not satori, but slight peace. Things go on oblivious to our personal sufferings. The clouds are still covering the mountains, the tides are still coming in and going out, a new phase of the moon starts; all with colossal indifference to humankind’s meager woes and setbacks. Some of us will go on somehow and some of us will not. Go back to that Epicurus quote, now even more significant just a few days later.
And then I wonder how I might have missed a sign. Was there something I could have done? Why wasn’t there one phone call or text reaching out? So many lifelines were available.
The absurdity of it all. We struggle and struggle. Do our struggles help others? Our selves? How do we judge the waves of meaninglessness?
A few days of quiet and solitude, very much needed after a hectic weekend and a very busy next week. I walked for seven miles today. The wind blew hard all afternoon, in fact it’s still blowing hard. There are massive whitecaps visible all the way to the horizon. Which makes it impossible to spot a whale’s meager breaths above the wild swells. There’s also no chance tonight of hearing the owl over the gusts. It was silent last night, too. Perhaps they’ve left the neighborhood again.
Writing has been slow. I’m trying to get started on a new story and its off to a torpid beginning. Hopefully I’ll catch some inspiration in the next few days. My long saunter earlier helped slightly.
I passed on a sushi outing this evening keeping my uni craving un-sated for at least another few days. Instead I made a penne puttanesca and stuck with detox tea. Maybe I’ll even get to bed early tonight. For a change.
Walking it off. 7.5 miles each of the last two days and 8.2 today. Walking what off though? The rawness of life in general maybe. Its not really working but I guess it’s better than whisky. I should go back to my Abbey, Thoreau and Peacock and remind myself why they walked and walked.
In a short story by Haruki Murakami I just finished a character proclaims, “No matter how far you travel, you can never get away from yourself.”
Echoing John Barlow, “You carry your pain wherever you go.”
Not that I’m trying to get away from myself, it’s just that I’m wondering if this past year of sloth and indecision, travel, music, reading, girls and loss made me a better person? I feel I have become more fragile during these past twelve months. More susceptible to life’s setbacks. Hiding it well is an art form however, as I just painfully found out.
I bowed out on another dinner tonight with a lovely friend, but she understands my ennui these days and has been quite sympathetic to my fluctuating disposition. I promised to make it up to her soon. And I will.
Arlo came to town the other night and played the Lobero. Every time he talked about the Berkshires my heart quivered. I had a memory of seeing him at Wahconah Park oh so many years ago with Bobby B. It’s amazing what will trigger a feeling of sadness and thinking about Bobby made the night bittersweet. He would have loved the show and the venue and the company. One of my best pals ever now gone almost seven years. It seems impossible. Just one more of time’s incomprehensible tricks that messes with my mind. It seems like I just talked to him a few weeks ago. Maybe that’s because I talk to him often in my thoughts.
My mind wanders, and not always with a beneficial trajectory. I can have days in a row where I can’t focus my thoughts and anxiety rages like wildfire. I look for beauty as hard as I can, yet it eludes me when I need it most.
My wanderlust was heavy today so I took a ride up to the Valley to just check out the lake and buy some wine. Cachuma is almost 80% full. The most water it has had in almost ten years. All the rain of the last few weeks has turned the mountains green like Ireland with random patches of orange poppies. It sprinkled off and on as I drove out to Zaca Mesa to see if they released any new wines but there was nothing I already didn’t have. I wandered some back roads and was going to stop in Los Olivos for something to eat but I really wasn’t hungry. I haven’t had much of an appetite lately. But it felt good to move for a few hours. I checked out an apartment in Santa Ynez that wasn’t quite what I’m looking for.
I got back home as the tide was going out so I walked for a while feeling the air get colder and colder and there were crisp smells on the breeze like a Pittsfield Autumn day.
The wonderful writer and poet W. S. Merwin passed away this week. Here’s one of my favorite poems called For the Anniversary of My Death that I read every now and then.
Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveler
Like the beam of a lightless star
Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what
The beach was busy this morning; seals, a hundred pelicans, dragonflies, curlews, and whales. The waves were mild and there were very few surfers out. I strolled along slowly savoring the semi wildness of the cove watching everything happen. I needed to calm my thoughts after Pete’s memorial last night.
Joseph Campbell’s birthday today. I spend an hour or so scanning through his books. Sometimes I blame him for my unconventional lifestyle, my unwillingness to lean my ladder against the wrong wall. My odd choices in jobs and the habit I have for extended sojourns against the grain. He writes;
“That’s why, as I said, you really can’t follow a guru. You can’t ask somebody to give The Reason, but you can find one for yourself; you decide what the meaning of your life is to be. People talk about the meaning of life — there are lots of meanings of different lives, and you must decide what you want your own to be.”
He’s been a pretty good guide over the years. I started reading him in the 80s. He gave me lots of big ideas and often rereading him leaves me with a heightened sense of what’s truly sacred and profound. He would have been 115 today. His beautiful wife, dancer Jean Erdman, is still alive and she is 102. I once had the pleasure of sitting next to her at a movie screening of The Hero’s Journey. She is lovely and elegant and erudite.
March comes to an end after a few busy days at work. The burden of waiting on the public is rapidly becoming more and more unbearable. Certainly what Campbell would accurately call "The Wasteland". But, and not for the first time recently, I sense a grand shift in the winds. Cause for some degree of optimism. Pushing myself into a corner is an option. After listening to a few days of my blabbering a friend just said, “I’m curious to see what’s next on your agenda.” And I guess I am too…
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