Nihilism

It’s extremely important to make the case for nihilism in all its forms.

See what I did there?

If nothing matters, then surely it doesn’t matter whether nihilism is the case.

Or does it?

Take moral nihilism.

Please.

If there are no objective values, does that mean that anything goes?  But if anything goes, wouldn’t that imply that there’s something wrong with asserting the existence of objective values?  Does nihilism end up eating its own tail?

There’s nothing wrong with self-contradictory paradoxical statements, except when there is.  Of course, since everything I say about epistemological nihilism is a lie, then there’s nothing to worry about worrying about.

As Ivan Karamazov was wont to proclaim, “If God doesn’t exist, then everything is permitted.”  But if everything is permitted, then nothing is prohibited.  But if nothing is prohibited, then there’s at least one thing—nothing—that isn’t permitted.  

Dang!

I want to be a nihilist, but if I want something, then I’m implying that it’s desirable.  But if it’s desirable, then I seem to be committed to the notion that it has some sort of value.

Dang, again!

Of course, it doesn’t really matter what you do; the Universe doesn’t care, that’s for sure, whether you regularly volunteer at the local soup kitchen or steal candy from unsuspecting babies in their strollers.  The Universe’s little cousin, though, Humanity, might have something to say about this and maybe that’s good enough for government work or jazz—or both, if it’s a government-supported jazz combo!

The simple fact that nihilism is especially popular among teenaged boys should tell you all you want to know about its status as a reasonable way to organize one’s life.  (Same goes double for the philosophical views of Ayn Rand).

Ludwig Wittgenstein, in his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, famously states, “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent;” but that hasn’t stopped philosophers from holding forth on all sorts of unspeakable claims.

Nilihist: Nothing wrong with that!

Vacation

With summer about to come to its melancholic conclusion, you may be wondering whether there’s still time to get in one last bit of vacation before the whole thing comes crashing down.

Good news!  It is still possible to have a little bit of fun and recreation prior to the traditional Labor Day barbecue marking the end of the season.  Here’s what you need to do:

Take out those old Bermuda shorts, the plaid ones you save for special occasions like weddings, baby showers, and the traditional bris ceremony.  Put them on over your swimsuit and complete the ensemble with a seersucker coat, no shirt.

Strap on your hurache sandals and accessorize with a pina colada and a porkpie hat.

Drink the pina colada and refill.

Stroll around your living room while finishing the second drink.  Put on some music, preferably something with a Latin beat, but you do you.

After 15 minutes, have another pina colada.  Accessorize with your favorite cannabis product.

Trading your porkpie hat for a bicycle helmet, head outside and take a bike ride.  If that isn’t nice, what is?  Assuming the lake is still warm enough and not all goose-poopy, a quick dip will surely add to the festive spirit.

At some point, you may want to take a nap.  This is highly recommended, but be sure to get off your bike and lie down first.

At some other point, another pina colada may be in order.  Again, it’s up to you, but be careful about overconsumption.  The human body can process only so much coconut cream.

Now, some may argue that this isn’t really a vacation; it’s just what we would call “Friday afternoon.”  Let the haters hate; that’s what vacationing is all about!

Others may contend that in order for something to be a vacation, there must be something someone is vacationing from.  Good point.  Point out to them that you are hereby vacationing from listening to their unsolicited opinions.

Absolved

It’s not my fault.

I hardly ever drive.  I don’t eat meat.  I’ve never owned a private jet or superyacht.

I’m not a member of an organized religion that believes its members are more favored by God or that they have a divine right to live in some specific Biblical homeland.  I don’t hold a long-standing grudge against a certain race or ethnic group based on far-off historical event.

I haven’t any aspirations to build a giant casino or massive data center in a desert.  You won’t find me harboring territorial ambitions regarding the places that other people live.  I’m perfectly fine with leaving that forest or untapped wilderness alone.

I have no desire to kill anyone to take their stuff.  I can’t see a need to travel to or colonize other planets.  I don’t even fish.

I’m not into fast fashion.  I don’t indulge in any of the drugs that devastate our cities and rural areas while making the cartels rich.  I’m not a health insurance corporation CEO.

Nor am I a corrupt, self-serving politician.

I let my lawn go dormant in the summer.  I take public transportation whenever possible.  I pay my taxes.

I have flown half a dozen or so times in the past couple of years.  But the planes were already going to those places, anyway, so don’t blame me.  Much, anyway.

On the rare occasions I order take-out coffee, I almost always use my recyclable mug.  It’s made of plastic, sure, but I’m keeping it out of the ocean.

I only have one child.  I pick up my dog’s poop and dispose of it responsibly, according to the guidelines on our local waste management company’s website.  I drop off spray cans and used batteries at the hazardous waste disposal site.

My 401k plan includes mutual funds with holdings from major multinational corporations; my home sits on the stolen lands of indigenous people; I’m an American.

Come to think of it, mea culpa.

Rant

I’m sick and tired of hearing people complain.  Everywhere you go, (or listen to, or read), you find another opinionated loudmouth going off about something that’s probably none of their business anyway.  So, enough, already!  Stop complaining!

It chaps my ass the way humans won’t shut up about whatever it is that annoys them, from something simple like international trade to a far more intractable problem, like whether it’s okay to snooze your alarm five times over half an hour before getting out of bed.

My blood boils at the sense of entitled outrage that people in all walks of life, young and old, rich and poor, find it necessary to express publicly.  “Shut up!” I explain to them; no one wants to put up with your grousing.

Back in my younger days, when nostalgia was so much better, you didn’t have to abide by such nonsense; people accepted their lot in life and kept their mouths shut if things were bothering them.  These days, anyone with an internet connection gets to spew their opinions all around the world; no wonder society is in such dire straits: instead of doing the work necessary to fix things, people just sit in their rooms and rant about what’s wrong.  Disgusting!

Plus, most of the things that people complain about are of their own doing, anyway.  You don’t like that brand of pickles?  Well, you shouldn’t have bought them!  You’re upset about traffic?  Don’t drive!  Can’t stand hearing others complain?  Stop listening!

People need to take more responsibility for their own petty annoyances.  So, don’t blame me if you don’t like what you’re hearing.  It’s not my fault that I’m the way that I am.  If only I hadn’t grown up in a society that celebrates bitching and moaning, I wouldn’t be griping and squawking in this way.

Have some self-awareness, people!  Complaining is just another way of not owning your own shortcomings!

But hey, who am I to complain?

Moribund

They—the Buddhists among others—say that as soon as you’re born, you start dying.  I suppose that’s true for some things, like your skin and hair cells, but it seems to me a bit of an overstatement; the real dying doesn’t start happening until your late twenties or early thirties.  And by the time you’re almost seventy years of age, the declension is in full swing.

The warranty on your body and mind expires sometime around the age you’re old enough to be eligible for the US Presidency, which is sort of ironic; you have to be in your declining years to qualify for the highest office in the land.  

Some folks are already on the downhill slide at 25, when a person can run for the House of Representatives or at 30, when one is allowed to pursue the US Senate, which perhaps explains why the interests of the future are discounted significantly in the setting of public policy.  In any event, it’s clear that the Federal government is made up almost completely by people who are essentially on their way out of here; no wonder so many of their decisions—and non-decisions—are both literally and figuratively killing us.

I tell myself I’m not particularly concerned about my own deliquescence; it is fascinating to watch how things that used to work quite easily, like fingers or knees, start to operate much less effectively and more painfully, but I suppose being able to observe their decline is something of a gift.  When the brain really begins to fail, one is unlikely to be aware and who knows, anosognosia may already be in full swing unbeknownst to the knower.

“Everything arises and passes away” is a fundamental truth of how the Nature operates, although it doesn’t seem to apply in the case of having to pee; that feeling seems to arise and keep arising, unless something is done about it.

So, pardon me now; Nature calls

Autopoesis

 There is no me.  “I” know that; it’s all either one thing or no thing or both or neither.  

We misidentify ourselves as individual beings when, in fact, we are all a singular universal Self, or perhaps we’re just an operation of processes with no discrete identity whatsoever.

In any case, this thing “I” call “me” is an illusion; it has no beginning, nor any end; it’s no more what “I” really am than my image in the mirror or a photograph. When I die, it will re-merge with the fundamental ground of all Being from whence it came and of which it truly is.  This “me” will be no longer, but since it never actually existed, we need not mourn; everything is as it ever was, the song—to quote those great philosophers, Led Zeppelin—remains the same.

All of this is somewhat confounding, however, given one’s appetite for breakfast cereal.  If it’s true that none of us is really what we think we are, then why would “I” be craving another bowl of granola.  Why, in fact, would “I” even had one in the first place?

And if what we really are is the Universal Self, eternal, unchanging, non-dual, pure Being, pure Consciousness, pure Bliss, then how come clothes that “I” purchased last year don’t fit “me” anymore?

Brahman’s got some explaining to do, if you ask “me.”

Perhaps it has something to do with what Alan Watts referred to in the title of his book The Book: On The Taboo Against Knowing Who You Really Are.  Maybe we’re culturally, socially, philosophically, theistically, and just plain stubbornly unable to admit to ourselves that our selves aren’t these things we go around pretending—and convincing—ourselves to be.

It sure would make for a more peaceful and harmonious world to accept the reality of our essential shared identity and moreover, it sure would be nice to share the same bowl of granola every morning as one.

Adequate

You don’t have to bring your “A” game to everything.  Sometimes, “B+” or even “C” is plenty.

Suppose, for instance, you’re cleaning the bathroom.  If you scour the toilet and wipe down the sink, that’s good enough for this week.  Next time, you can mop the floor and scrub the shower.

Or consider your daily yoga or exercise practice.  Just “going through the motions” is better than nothing if, at least, it gets you doing the thing.

Or imagine that you are a college teacher and you’ve overserved yourself a little bit the night before.  You can have students break into groups and discuss the reading; that will get you all through the period and you can prepare to do better the next time your class meets.  

Just imagine.

Striving for excellence is admirable, but occasionally, just settling for adequate is to be appreciated.  

You don’t have to make your beans from scratch; the canned ones are fine in a stew.  It’s not necessary to use the washcloth all over your body every time; as long as you’ve got your pits and privates, that should do the trick.  The dog doesn’t need an hour long walk twice a day; taking her around the block so she can sniff and poop will do.

This isn’t to say you should settle for anything; one draws the line at instant rice, for instance.  And there’s no reason anyone should accept single-ply toilet paper on a regular basis.

But as has been said before: “Not everything is everything.”  Sometimes good enough is good enough.  The bare minimum does meet the minimum requirements.

That old chestnut asks, “What do they call a doctor who graduated last in their class at medical school?” The answer? “Doctor!”  And while you may not want to have them perform your brain surgery; they’d be okay for your annual physical.

No doubt this essay could have been much better, but note it's not nothing and that’s something.