July 27, 2020 on the feeling of freedom

I'm in Queen Anne, sitting in the living room with a cup of coffee made from a moka pot that I haven't used since last November. Like most Americans I started drinking coffee from a drip machine, then I used a French press for a while. But then I wanted to get more adventurous without buying an espresso machine, so I bought my moka pot. I then switched to pour overs because they offer the most precise extraction with the least amount of work, and they're the best way to enjoy small batch coffee; but then I wasn't able to afford expensive coffee anymore, so it hardly mattered. Then I moved in with Caitlin, and now we're using her French press because it makes enough coffee for us to have two cups each. Caitlin isn't here today, so I'm using my moka pot for the first time in a while, and it's perfect for the cheap, bitter, over-roasted, big-batch coffee that I have been paying too much for.

Saying all of that is making me think about how our environments, especially the objects/tools of our everyday environment are shaped by our fluctuating circumstances.

I think the best things, namely tools, are born out of necessity. When a void/vacuum/negative-charge is created, something eventually comes to fill in the gap. When something is out of tune, my mind quietly says, "There must be a better way," and then it silently stands watch until something comes along. The price of this process is that it requires me/us to consciously reflect on imperfection and incompleteness.

The wrong thing to do is to go out and buy the nicest espresso machine with mere desire and no true need.

Clutter is born from the acquisition of needless tools. 

...

I feel good, quite good. I'm not sure what to make of it. 

I wish I were a productive member of society, but I'm the happiest I've ever been.

...

Last week when I went to Chelan, I spoke with a man at a gas station in Cle Elum. He was a self-proclaimed Harley guy who was driving an mid-2000's Mazda. He was short, wrinkled, and with white hair, but he was in good shape, with disproportionately large biceps that suited him well. 

While I was gearing up he said he really enjoyed the "freedom" of riding without a helmet. That word usage struck me as odd. Riding without a helmet isn't freedom; but the option to ride without a helmet is freedom. He should feel free if he has the choice to ride with or without a helmet. (In Washington, motorcycle riders are required to wear helmets.)

I think this man is describing something else—a romantic, unrestricted connection with his environment.

I think he made a peculiarly American mistake by confusing freedom with romanticism.

The only time that we can feel freedom is when we open up a new world with tools (e.g. buying a motorcycle or acquiring some other skill) or when we break chains (leaving jail/military). But then the existentialists spend a lot of time describing freedom as nausea and dizziness. I think this is because freedom is possibility, unactualized potential that can leave us overwhelmed and lost.

It is my suspicion that freedom does not feel good except for during its early states. But freedom is good.

The relationship between doing and being is a mystery to me.  I don't really have the words for why I am perplexed. Maybe my confusion and wonder is self-imposed.

Suppose you want to be a better person. You might start by doing the right things. But how can you do the right things without first being a better person? (How can an evil man do good? How can a fool act wisely without first becoming wise?)

When I am caught between the poles of being and doing I feel like I am not capable of willing anything. My being becomes a reflection of itself, and my action is the act of reflecting.

I reflect myself: I am being myself, perhaps?. Is this a union of being and doing? Whatever it is, it feels like annihilation.

Stupid words. Strange loops. It—whatever it is—doesn't make sense, and I feel powerless and stupid when I reflect on this at a distance. —whatever this thought is, I don't have a good grasp of it. 

July 20, 2020

It's Monday. I must have put 700 miles on my bike since Thursday. My thumbs hurt, and my body has been sore every day. I've had a few relatively close calls. I had to slam on my brakes on the freeway going 70mph, which is one of the scariest things that has happened to me. And I dropped my bike once in sand and once in gravel while going downhill on a forest service road. The bike is fine, but my pride was not. And I actually found it more difficult to turn and brake when I got back on the road because my confidence melted a bit. I am slowly regaining my confidence. Afterwards I learned from Kris that you're not supposed to use your front brake while offroad, especially when you're on a heavy bike with street tires.

I'm in Queen Anne. I'm nearly moved in with Caitlin. It's 10am and she is making breakfast while she 'works' from home; things are slow at the office. Rockstar, Danni's cat is in my lap, purring heavily and repeatedly wiping his drool on the whale tattoo on my forearm while I type this. I'm drinking the last silty cup of coffee from a french press filled with Raven's Brew coffee, a favorite from my college days. 

My thumbs really hurt from holding the throttle and brake open for so long.

...

My plan was to write about sophistication. But I think I already wrote what I meant to in my previous post:

Sophistication is the virtue by which we perceive Quality or excellence (ἀρετή), especially where the material and social world intersect: food, drink, clothes, and machines, but also art.

...

There is a parallel between punctuated equilibrium and Heraclitus' lightning.

July 14, 2020

I'm sitting cross-legged on goose-shit covered grass under a tree by Lake Washington in Lakeview by Seward Park. The skies are blue, save for a few wispy cirrus clouds. I am surrounded by families. There are a few ducks and ducklings floating in the lake by the shore. There are speedboats and paddleboards. The air has that funky lake smell. My motorcycle is parked within sight on a residential street 50 meters behind me. 

A duck has waddled within five feet of me. It's walking towards an older middle aged couple eating, hoping for food. She has denied its request for food, but her partner in a fedora and goatee is obliging the duck. The duck is almost touching the man's foot.

Nine geese have come ashore ten meters away. They are gaggling, intermittently pecking at the ground, lacking any sense of urgency, caring only not to stray too far from each other.

Earlier I was in Bellevue, at the park in the city center, lounging in a hammock. I wrote a few paragraphs and read a little bit of Camus' The Rebel.

I have recently realized that what I am doing now is a type of leisure that I had once aspired to. It wasn't long ago that this is what I wanted to do—meaningful nothingness. I think the only thing that I would wish to change is to open the gyms and the cafes again; but that would mean forgoing my more than generous unemployment benefits, so I'll avoid complaining.

My current leisure comes with a sense of guilt. This is because I know that my pleasure is built on top of someone else's work. This is okay from a big picture perspective: utility is being maximized. 

What is the point of work if not to spend time enjoying ourselves meaningfully? Unfortunately, in my case, the person who is working is not the same person who is enjoying leisure. This has often been the case; historically it was the aristocracy. This time, it happens to be me, and my purchases, especially those at small businesses are good for the global economy. Moreover, this is only temporary; I won't die a rich duke. The worst that could happen is that I slip into complacency.

My sense of guilt comes from a narrow perspective: I am not working, so why should I deserve the fruits of the labor of others? Others are suffering, and I am enjoying myself. How can that be right? Therefor I should make an effort to not be/look so happy.

No, that doesn't seem right. I believe this feeling of guilt of guilt has something important to show me.

Don't brag. That's what it says: Don't brag, because if you do, that will be your reward; you shall forego your sense of leisure, and it will be replaced with a mere spectacle.

There is something mystical about this. It reminds me of a line that I have previously quoted from the Tao Te Ching: 

The work is done, but how no one can see;

'Tis this that makes the power not cease to be.

Additionally, while I was packing boxes, I read a diary entry from late 2014. My quasi-Jungian fantasies were concerned with "secrets". —And I have always been bad about not keeping my damn mouth shut. Somehow I feel like I must always open my mouth and destroy something subtle with language. It's easy to kill the vibe (like a good, sophisticated mood) with words—especially self-conscious words. 

...

Sophistication. 

Sophistication is something that I have not thought much about lately, but I think it is something that I have been living. I think that sophistication is one of my guiding principles, one of my more developed virtues.

If I were to die today, my ghost would regret not having written all I have to write about sophistication. It might be one of my tasks to do here on Earth. No one seems to have gotten it right quite yet.

Random thought: in relation to Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Sophistication is the virtue by which we perceive Quality or excellence (ἀρετή), especially where the material and social world intersect: food, drink, clothes, and machines, but also art.

July 13, 2020

It's 2:00pm. I'm sitting at my desk in my room. I just posted an ad on craigslist to sell my bed frame for $15 or best offer. I had an almond croissant from Cafe Ladro this morning when I dropped off Caitlin at her place (which is soon to be our place). But now it is time for lunch, and I want to cook a burger when the kitchen is free. 

I've put over 500 miles on the bike in a week. It was a blast. I have confirmed that I have a slow air leak. I'm going to need new tubes. I have no idea how much those run.

Mariah, Daniel, Kris, Caitlin, and I are planning a camping/motorcycle+car trip to San Juan Island. I reserved a ferry for Caitlin and I on the bike.

I'm worried about my lack of writing and overall lack of "real" productivity. I wrote the following in my notebook earlier today:

I can't seem to focus on my writing. maybe fiction writing is a fickle thing that requires a lot of stability. Or maybe it is a jealous hobby that requires all of my attention.

I think I would do best to to partition my time better. I should set aside time. I think my writing requires quiet, reliable, and steady intervals.

My writing needs guaranteed space in order to continually bloom. In order to develop my writing, I must give it the steady care reserved for growing a bonsai tree or cultivating a beautiful garden: one must not leave such a beautiful thing unattended for too long.

[...]

July 9, 2020

It's noon. I've just put on my jacket and boots to go for a motorcycle ride to a grocery store 20 minutes away so that I can pick up a few groceries. I feel guilty for not being particularly productive today. I have a story that I am sitting on. And I have a few stories that (desperately) need editing. I have failed to read Plato this week, and I hardly read anything last week.

This feels like leisure. I worry that this is decadent or too aristocratic.

But it feels good.

I worry that I feels too good. I worry that I will get soft. But I will allow myself this time to ride. I just hope I don't lose sight of my love/need for reading and writing.

Onward we go. (To Fred Meyer for some lean ground beef and hamburger buns.)

[...]

I had an odd realization while finishing up a chapter in Camus' The Rebel as he was talking about Nietzsche. I thought about when I first picked up Nietzsche. I was on my last few months in the army back in 2014 or 2015. I didn't quite know what I was getting myself into. Philosophy and "proper" intellectual thought (not just false prophets on youtube) seemed like a huge magnificent territory. 

Now I feel like I have become familiar with the terrain of Western Philosophy. I rarely read something that is unfamiliar. I have crossed over many of the same places many times. I'm not an expert. I don't know if I can fairly rate my own level of understanding. But I can say that I no longer feel lost.

My idea of philosophy has lost its greatness. Approaching philosophy and intellectual thought used to be feel to me like approaching the Monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey. I don't feel that anymore. I think I grew out of it; that feels like the right phrasing. 

My relationship to it has changed. I still enjoy philosophy. I still find value in it. Philosophy and other pursuits are endless. 

[...]

The Philosopher's Stone doesn't turn lead into gold. It creates more value from something less valuable.

I think that this applies in something as mundane as a conversation. A boring conversation about the weather can have a positive influence on the world—thereby creating value. I suppose this is also salesmanship and customer service. Alternatively there is also engineering and the sciences that make objects more useful/effective/valuable.

Value is a mystery—intrinsic value even more so.

Like, what the fuck is intrinsic value anyway?

For me, at the moment, something with intrinsic value is riding a motorcycle. When I'm riding I'm there. —Wherever that is, I think it is a good place to be; it is valuable, and its value can increase or decrease.

July 5, 2020: I bought a bike!

It's around 10pm. I'm in bed, still wearing jeans and sweaty socks. 

I bought a bike! It's a 2016 Triumph Bonneville. I had incredible luck. The bike only had 28 miles! twenty-eight! The original owner bought it in 2017 and slid it into a ditch and broke a few ribs (before 28 miles.) It was $5500. The blue book price for this bike with "normal usage" was $6500. I think he could have sold it for 7,000 to $8,000.

Riding season is just starting. I could probably flip this bike in a week or two and make a $1000 after taxes. But that will absolutely not happen.

My goodness. This happened much quicker and much better than I thought it might. All this thing needs is an oil change. I think I'll have to head up to Bellingham soon once the oil is taken care of. 

...

I could see that the previous owner was scared of the bike. It bit him. Hard. He said he was out for six months. His body language was showing Kris and I that he was afraid of the bike. He was hesitant just to get it started. 

It's not a light bike. It's intimidating. 

My quasi-poetic imagination shows me a picture of an eager black horse. I get these kinds of pictures when I deal with something that has been invested with attention/libido/etc. 

Despite the danger, despite the risk, I have a good feeling.

Here's a pic of me. 

...

I'm trying to wind down. It has been quite the day. I picked up Jung's Symbols of Transformation that has been sitting by my bed for a few months now. I've read it intermittently. As I picked up the physical copy of the book, some thoughts that had been developing came to mind. It's rather simple actually. But it's one of those things that is surprisingly profound. 

In this book Jung talks about the Hero Cycle/Hero's Journey. Joseph Campbell took this, repackaged it nicely, and made a fortune off of it. Many long stories short: The hero confronts an enemy that defeats him, as if it were fate, but then the hero wins in the end, usually after the darkest moment when he has been swallowed by the beast. Sometimes the hero loses.

Basically the sun sets, and then it comes back again, automagically; unless it doesn't. 

Automagically is the key word here.

Just like how the sun rises, order is made from chaos. How? Well, there might be a satisfying, worry-canceling principle, like how Newton explains how the sun rises using the law of gravity. However, many people (read: definitely me) worry about things without satisfying answers.

By spending time with this worry, I have come closer to something profound. It's a mystery, really: within my life and within my mind, things have fallen apart, but then they have come back together again in meaningful way. (Meaning is the key word.)

I can't say whether this ordering/organizing force is neutral, negative, or positive. But I have experienced it as Good, as in capital G, Greek, Good. Or at least excellent/arete.

My point is that order comes from chaos, maybe not all chaos, but at least it comes from certain types of chaos. And I don't think anyone really understands the deepest principle by which that happens. It's a mystery. But I think we're all capable of coming up with our own theories—our own relationships to reality, we might say.