Once in a while I find myself scaling a philosophical tract, be it a source material or ruminations upon such a source. A word I always trip over is “epistomology.” It is defined as the study of knowledge, or the discernment of knowledge versus speculation, fact versus theory, theory versus hypothesis. Simply put: The study of knowledge.
I usually detect a gritted awareness that no one really reads this stuff outside the academic circles, and those who do are not taken seriously should they enter into the discussion, or rather enjoy the freedom of their own isolation.
Does the study of knowledge include the study of nonsense? Nonsense seems to be intricate to the discussion of knowledge, in the sense that the discussion itself tosses off shards of throwaway thoughts and asides meant to humanize.
The cup is on the saucer. Or is it? Is the saucer under the cup, supporting it; or is the cup on top, dominating whilst validating the saucer’s purpose? You can see where philosophy gets laughed at at times. Sometimes a cup is just a cup.
My philosophical cud to chew involves place. Where am I? Am I here, or there? Am I always here, or when I move over there, am I then there, or still here? Where is here? Here continuously transplants, not just in body but in mind. One moment you are here, the next moment you are out there. But the unquestionable reality is that you are always here. You can never be there when you are here.
When you are on the telephone, where are you? You are still here, with your voice heard over there. Your voice is heard there but the dynamic of place does not change. You are still here, on the phone. You did not metamorphize or transport your material self. In short: Don’t go anywhere, because there is nowhere to go. Everything is here.
Someone asked if I’ve seen “PRAY” lately. I have not, but this reminds me that I swear I saw it on the 77 Water Street payphones and it disappeared. I need to revisit that. It may have been a copycat, and a poorly done copy cat at that if it already faded. Lately my 77 Water Street visits marvel only at the presence of my Payphone Radio cards. I neglect the forensic erotica of those phones, to my own loss, perhaps.
I will look for it tomorrow, or maybe Sunday, my day of rest. I am looking forward to being at work consistently, without taking time off spontaneously on account of panic or anxiety attacks. I’ve stayed calm and drugged up. Or drugged down. Few calls bother me as they might have in weeks past.
One breakthrough that appears to have come through at last is that I actually will get dental work done that is covered by insurance. Cleaning and routine xrays were always covered but a previous dentist wanted to do $10,000 worth of work I thought sounded needless and intrusive. And it would not have been covered at all. Her account of it was that it really would not stop the decay, only put lipstick on it, so to speak. She didn’t say it with those words but that was the gist. She was condescending about it, implying I did this to myself by never visiting a dentist in 10 years, which is total bullshit. But enough about that tired rant.
How much longer do I have at this job? I submit every weekly timesheet as if it is my last. I would miss the reliable office space and computers. I can’t say I’d miss the people because I barely know anybody here. One woman seems interested one day, then not interested the next. I don’t know if it’s a game or if she’s unsure. She’s the only person I’ve communicated with outside the office, and I even shared some of the writings I do here at this break room counter. People have asked what I write here but I don’t answer in a meaningful way. She is the only one who knows anything about what I’m doing here. We had a fun encounter on the subway. Enough to talk about for a dozen conversations, but all at once, all so fast.
Apparently an earthquake shook the region overnight. I felt nothing but it doesn’t seem I would have. Talk of Manhattan sinking under its trillions of tons of skyscrapers seems perfectly plausible to me. I need breakfast meat.