OPM 199, September 1st Meditation (2004 & 2014)

Today is Labor Day, the last day of summer break.  For colleges and schools that have not yet begun, tomorrow is the first day.   I return to campus on Thursday.   Besides feeling the usual melancholia with the close of my four months away from Hofstra, today I found myself feeling somewhat edgy after reading a commentary piece in today’s Press Herald.   The piece, by a labor historian, documented the demise of manufacturing in Maine, specifically, the rise and fall of the textile industry.   Thousands of jobs were lost in the closing of one mill after another, and the results of those closures can be seen and felt today when one travels through cities like Lewiston, which also happens to be the city where my daughter Sofie’s college, Bates, is located.   Indeed, Bates was the name of the textile company founded in 1850 by Benjamin Bates, and was the biggest single employer in Maine for decades until it closed in 1960s.   Profits from the mill lead to the founding of the college when Bates granted land to the abolitionists who founded the college in 1855 as the Maine State Seminary, and were lead by Oren Burbank Cheney, who served as the first president.  Bates was the first co-ed college in New England, and also amongst its first students were former slaves.  The founding of Bates College is inspiring, for sure, and also ironic, given that the cotton that was used in the Lewiston mill was brought from the southern plantations where it was cultivated and picked by African-Americans who were held in bondage.  

I was inspired to write about the Bates mill because the closing of the mill,  which is like so many places of manufacturing that once turned out high quality goods made by hard working people who were proud of their work, and of the lives they lived.  The loss of manufacturing to factories in China is infuriating, and it makes me want to return so many of the goods I purchase, especially the footwear (running sneakers, hiking boots, water shoes for paddling and sailing, all made in China for US companies) because they are all designed for active outdoors people who live in places like Maine, and should, I strongly believe, be made in places like Maine.    The politicians and finance class that has destroyed the manufacturing economy of the US represent the worst that this culture has ever produced, including the plantation owners, with whom they almost match with their greed and misanthropy.

So much for a Labor Day critique!

Back to the legend of Zarathustra…

Yesterday the legend ended with Don Quixote bringing Zarathustra to the morning meal prepared by Sancho Panza, who was resentful of the guest he was compelled to welcome.  By the end of the meal Zarathustra has succumbed to a food comas, for the food and drink “was the stuff of travellers, of those accustomed to constant movement.  For an immobile one like Zarathustra, it had a soporific effect.”  Remember, this is the Zarathustra before he has climbed to the mountain cave.  And thus soon after had he been roused by Quixote he “fell into a calm and dreamless nap…the soft smile he had worn since arriving to the camp remained on his face.”

“Snatching the remnants of the meal, Sancho resigned himself to cleaning and packing [a task] made easier by an occasional nip from his boda and thoughts of the mid-morning snack of dried fruits and nuts.

“It was the Maestro’s habit of taking leave without warning, but Sancho never worried about falling behind, for he knew Quixote would be stalled by some adventurer or another not before too long...Looking down at the dozing Zarathustra, Sancho shook his head and re-opened one of the saddlebags that contained the treasures of the ‘New World.’  He removed two packets.  One contained an assortment of green leaves, and the small chunks of a hard matter that could be mistaken for soil. He took the leaves, and wrapped them around the chunk.  He then rolled the wrap in his hands so as to tighten and warm [what now] resembled a caterpillar. ‘This will give his head a sleep a jolt,’ Sancho said to no one in particular. ‘Hey you, head of sleep, let’s go, the sun is beginning to rise and we need to reach the forest edge by mid-day or else I’ll be in no mood to make lunch.’  Sancho’s pudgy finger poked Zarathustra.  ‘Let’s go, c’mon now, nappy head, I have something you’ll like.’  He waved the [caterpillar] under Zarathustra’s nose, which he tickled.  Zarathustra woke again with laughter.  ‘What a strange sweet smell you offer me brother.  What is it?’  ‘Cacao, from the southwest, across the sea, brought to these shores by ships carrying treasures of fruits, nuts, herbs for healing, such as this cacao and coca…We were fortunate to encounter generous traders as we returned from the west.  Here, put this between your cheek and gum.  The [coca] leaf will hold the cacao together as it dissolves.  The play of the two will help keep you moving this morning.  Drink something too.  Here.’  With that gesture, Sancho handed Zarathustra a boda.  ‘This is yours, now.  Put the strap over your head.  That’s right.  Now, be sure to take small sips, like this.’  Sancho demonstrated the art of boda sipping.  ‘Remember, too much at one time only increases the desire for more, and if you empty the boda before the mid-day meal, you are on your own to deal with your thirst.  And, trust me brother, you will not find any place on this wasteland to re-fill that boda.’  What that said, Sancho mounted and rode off quickly, at first, then slowed to an even pace.  Zarathustra’s smile grew into a full face grin.  He lifted his arms into a stretch and let out a roar of exaltation, which startled Sancho’s donkey, [who] nearly threw the rider to the ground.  ‘The [leaves and chunk are] working [their magic],’ though Sancho.  Zarathustra looked around the barren patch, sighed, smiled and began hiking.’(09/01/04)

The freedom of taking up the literary form leads to moments of pure joy that only writing can offer.   And there’s no question that by day three of writing this legend I was experiencing that joy.   In truth, I derive the most pleasure from the literary form, or from what generally speaking I would call the narrative or story-telling form.  And it’s no wonder that I embraced Arendt’s claim about story telling and the formation of community.    My first love of writing came when, as a kid in elementary school, fifth grade to be exact, I found myself empowered by writing, or, rather, recognized I had found a pure joy in writing.   I’ve often been told I am a good writer, and some have said ‘gifted’, but I suppose I’ve never had the discipline or the courage to devote myself to the craft in a single minded way.  And that does seem like an odd thing for someone to claim who writes every day.  Indeed, I’ve written well over 70,000 words this summer in this blog!   And there have been moments, many, when I’ve felt that pure joy, and experienced that unique freedom that comes from writing.  So where is the disconnect?  Why make the claim that I am lacking the courage and discipline to write?  What does it mean to devote oneself to writing in a single minded way?

The answers to these questions are all being explored in one way or another through the project of originary thinking, which, when it is not taken up by the modality of ontological thinking, is focused on the crafting of novel ways of writing philosophy, which, in some cases, is an experiment in old forms.   For example, in the weeks this summer when I was distilling a fragment, I was experimenting with the aphoristic form.   Be that as it may, however, in my heart of hearts I want to write stories (as Hemingway calls them), in large part because I enjoy telling stories, and I believe I have a talent for telling them.  (I’m reminding myself this now as I look forward to the first day of teaching on Thursday: tell stories!  Speak in narrative!! Above all else, DON’T bore them!)  Claiming I lack the courage and conviction and the discipline to write is all referring to my unfulfilled desire to write stories!   And this is why, perhaps, I suddenly broke into the story telling form in the days leading up to the new academic year.   It was a way of reminding myself of my first love, discovered in school, and, to this day, unrequited…by me!