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Editor of Logos, an online journal of society and culture.
Lives in New Jersey.
Won't eat frozen vegetables.
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Thursday, July 31
I think that I yearn for something that we all do, only some of us feel it more than others. I want wholeness, not fragmentation. I want unity, not disperateness. I want oneness, not diaspora. In society and culture, I want the chaos of modernity to be quelled by the tempered genius of the Greeks and in myself, I want assuage the chaos of my soul through overcoming its lonliness. Shall I quote Holderlin once more:
Indessen dunket mir ofters
Besser zu schlafen, wie so ohne Genossen zu seyn,
So zu harren und was zu thun indess und zu sagen,
[But meanwhile too often I think it is
better to sleep than to be friendless as we are, alone,
Always waiting, and what to do or say in the meantime.]
But, like Kierkegaard says about the existential angst of the soul: you need to feel the sickness first before knowing a cure is in need. I think that this is true, and I will say now that in philosophy we can gain clarity of vision, but not wisdom in practical relations. We can see things about the world that no one else can--those illiterate in philosophy--the right kind of philosophy--will always remain ignorant. They will seek solace in religion, in tortured personal relationships and in the Bacchanalian bliss of capitalist consumerism. But let it not be said that philosophy is the only avenue to truth.
Unity can only come from the reconciliation of our opposites--both within ourselves and externally in the world. I know this now, and I must work through it. Can I feel for another and let myself become whole once more even though it will be in a world that itself is disturbed and imbalanced? Can I let myself feel again after so many years of quiesence and slumber? I do not know, but if so, it may be a tonic of incredible power. I am confused now, but in a good way. I suppose that being so deeply folded into oneself can never be a good thing. I suppose that I have always needed someone else to break down barriers that I have lived within. If the situation arises, I think now I will allow this. When you finally smile after so long, your eyes will thaw in response to the light. Do you recall Holderlin's lines, dear reader:
Sanfter traumet und sclaft in Armen der Erde der Titan,
Selbst der neidische, selbst Cerberus trinket und schlaft.
[Dreams more gentle and sleep in the arms of Earth lull the Titan,
Even that envious one, Cerberus, drinks and lies down.]
Michael was existentially meandering at 3:49 PM \\
Wednesday, July 30
Art has become my supreme protector. Mein Trost, mein Zuversicht! as Bach says about another all-powerful force. But I know now that there are limits to this barrier that has soothed me for so long. Dear reader, do you know Holderlin's wonderful words?
Schones Leben! du lebst, wie die zarten Bluthen im Winter,
In der gealterten Welt bluhst du verschlossen, allein.
Lieben strebst du hinaus, dich zu sonnen am Lichte des Fruhlings,
Zu erwarmen an ihr suchst di die Jugend der Welt.
Deine Sonne, die schonere Zeit, ist untergegangen
Und in frostiger Nacht zanken Orkane sicht nun.
[Beautiful being, you live as do delicate blossoms in winter,
In a world that has old hidden your blossom, alone.
Lovingly outward you press to bask in the light of the springtime,
To be warmed by it still, look for the youth of the world.
But your sun, the lovlier world, has gone down now,
And the quarelling gales rage in an icy bleak night.]
How else to describe the waning of the power of art, of the failure of its cleansing power? I believe that I have become so terribly inept at comprehending anything other than the purity of artistic expression at its highest moments to the extent that all else seems futile now.
My life has become so terribly out of balance, so heavy with sorrw and darkness--it has become that icy bleak night. And this is deservedly so. I think that understanding this reality is central. I have become "too much with the world," as Wordsworth says. I must recede. I must disengage. The dissonance of my life has become so deep, so total, I am unable to perform the most basic fuinctions of life. I have no interest in reading--except for poetry--writing, eating, etc. I only have the thirst for harmony, for rest. I know now I must be the one to impose order on the chaos, but to do so would be quite difficult.
I am beginning to be very bothered by the presence of an interesting woman in my life. I need to shun this now. I think she is wonderful in every way, but I believe this has been disturbing the balance in my life that I have worked so hard to attain and maintain throughout these many years. I cannot allow this to happen, I must be firm. And, to that end, I must return to that all-encompassing power of art and conceptual thought. I must work in the world to shape something better, for the redemption through culture and politics that the human race so dearly needs. I have no other purpose, and even at that, my contribution will be nominal if even recognized at all. So be it, but let it not be said that I live a life without external purpose!
And for you, art. I can say with Holderlin who, while referring to Empedocles still had an insight into the realm of true Truth, penned the following blissful lines:
Doch heilig bist du mir, wie der Erde Macht,
Die dich hinwegnahm, kuhner Getodteter!
Und folgen mocht' ich in die Tiefe,
Hielte die Liebe mich nicht, dem Helden.
and for those illiterate in German:
[Yet you are holy to me as is the power
of earth that too you from us, the boldly killed!
And gladly, did not love restrain me,
Deep as the hero plunged down I'd follow.]
Michael was existentially meandering at 8:56 AM \\
Tuesday, July 29
I do not think that I can deny that, of all things, my emotional life has become so self-contained and self-referential that I am unable to understand and deal with others in a more intimate way. At first, it would seem that this is something good: one is protected from the temptations of the world, of the flesh and can therefore spend more of one's time in contemplation, in thought.
But there is also another reality. That there are emotions that I have, in one sense, distanced myself from but not wholly eliminated. I suppose that I am very wary of falling into a situation of emotional servitude--to a woman of course--and not in the sense that I will be manipulated by her, but in the sense that I will be overwhelmed by the sense of emotional duty and obligation that I will lose who I am, or who I have become.
There is a woman that I have been seeing, but not in an intimate or imminently intimate way. No, I think I have been thinking about her in a more or less abstract sense: in the sense that there is a huge part of my life that is unfulfilled but is unfullfillable; but there is also the sense that I have wrought something that I am now unable to undo: the very essence of self-limitation. I have been thinking about her in the sense that I feel different around her, but refuse to allow those feelings to evolve--so to speak. I think about her and become light of heart; I wish to be better; I am engulfed by streams of light. I cannot say that these are wholly positive things, after all. I am not convinced that I can trust my own feelings in this way, and am still deeply skeptical of how I feel about her. But I can say that it is not something easily ignored. I am so much better off on my own, receding from the world human friction and interaction at that intimate level.
I cannot go into this with any detail here and now. Suffice it to say that I long for some comfort from these feelings. I am so adamant not to fall in love ever again. I will not do it, it is, as Spinoza says, the essence of "human bondage." But, at the same time, I search for a solution to this problem. I think and think about it, it consumes me. And in the process, I suffer untold woe. I ask with Holderlin:
So, ihr Leben! auch mir, so will es scheinen, und niemand
Kann von der Stirne mir nehmen den traurigen Traum?
[So, beloved ones, it seems, with me it is too, and can no one
Lift this dead weight from my brow, break the all-saddening dream?]
--"Menons Klagen um Diotima"
Michael was existentially meandering at 4:04 PM \\
Thursday, July 24
I am now of the decided opinion that art has an essentially Aristotelian function. Ok, who cares: well, for one thing, I do because I live in a world--and I mean this in the most typical sense, i.e., New York--that has become so quotidian, so pathetically mundane and predictable that the only form of escape is through art, through a sense of katharsis.
Aristotle means by this term a "cleansing" of the emotions; a purging of feelings that make us unhealthy in mind and soul--i.e., it sickens our ethos. Whatever the case may be, I have learned that there is no escape from this world, that there is no way to negotiate yourself out of it. No, in its place, art must serve to function as a means of dealing with what has become so disenchanted that existential angst can be the only result.
Dear reader, do you recall what Goethe says about poetry?
Gedichte sind gemalte Fensterscheiben!
[poems are painted windows!]
I suppose the greatest dilemma--at least for me--is considering the apparent--and it is only apparent, not essential--truth that this is an elitist position; that the only way to appreciate and approach great works of art--and this in itself is a problematic concept--is through a finely tuned sense and the perseverence needed to incorporate and comprehend the work of art.
Well, to that I can only say that what else is there to do? After all, are we not all encased in this world of things that are to be controlled, manipualted? Is not the entirety of western science and rationalism now turned toward the control of people as well as things? Has not the hope of a truly ethical community capable of producing the "whole man" (der Mensch ganz), liberated from self-alienation now nothing more than a chimera?
To these concerns I can only say that saving what humans have produced that is beautiful and enlightening is our only choice. For I can say with some degree of confidence, after Heidegger, and please excuse the Heideggerianism, it is within the work of art that the world worlds (da weltet die Welt).
Michael was existentially meandering at 9:09 AM \\
Monday, July 14
I have slipped once again into a terrible depression. I cannot really say why, but I am beginning to see that I am unable to take care of the most basic things in my life; that I have no real emotional support to sure up any of my insecurities, and that I face an increasingly futile and bleak future. This may sound over the top, but it is not, if one actually thinks about it.
For one thing, it would seem that I am constantly running into bureaucratic dilemmas. My car insurance was cancelled, I discovered this weekend, because I did not know about this last payment that had to be made. Now, I need to take care of this problem and fix it--and there is no guarantee that I can. This points to a broader problem: I am not able to deal with these problems emotionally: I have no confidence that they will work out in my favor and that I will constantly be thrown into ever deepening holes of inconvenience for the most simple of things.
In addition, I have found that my depression has little to do with alcohol consumption. I have cut down drinking to the point that it is practically non-existent. And yet, these depressive phases persist. I have also found that there is really no one to talk to about this anymore. I have started to go back to therapy, but this seems increasingly futile. I do not think I want to get better because I do not think that I can. I see myself perpetually in this situation and I am perennially--it would seem--moving as far backward as I am forward. IN other words, I see little room for personal improvement.
I am no longer sure what to do and I am very confused. I am growing apart from people, and from myself. I am coming apart at the emotional seams and I see no tonic to break this descent into the abyss. Perhaps you recall the wonderful title of one of Baudelaire's great poems: De profundis clamavi. And yet, I see, no one hears.
Michael was existentially meandering at 11:27 AM \\
Tuesday, July 8
I have become increasingly disenchanted with my life. I do not think this is a return to the depressive spells of the past few months. No, this is more along the lines of seeing that perhaps fulfillment in life is something totally elusive. My work has always given me satisfaction, and it still does; but I see now that there is an endurting emptiness that I am unable to fill. I feel that the more I interact with others, I see that this is something that grows more intense and yet--paradoxically--more tolerable.
I suppose it is difficult to explain any of this outside of the mere subjective reflection that I am presenting. Then again, I keep Marcus Aurelius closer than ever before. I remember those lines that have kept me steady for so many years:
Be like the cliff against which the waves continually break; but it stands firm and tames the fury of the water around it.
I think that I am unclear about myself. I think that I am not clear about how I feel about things and my relation to things. I am learning more now, but about things that I am not used to learning about. I am learning about relating to people and therefore about relating to myself. I am seeing now that despair will be my only end unless something in my Weltanschauung changes. I cannot rationally adapt to this world. I cannot eschew the reality of existential angst, of ontological insecurity. But is this to mean that I am not to do whatever I am able to ward off this reality? Is this to mean that I am not to fight back? How can one simply accept such a fate?
As Marcus Aurelius wisely writes:
Will you go on desiring many other things? The you will be neither free, nor sufficient for your own happiness, nor clear of passion.
"Clear of passion"--what does that mean? Yes, I do know! And this is the knowledge I must now seek.
Michael was existentially meandering at 9:41 AM \\
Tuesday, July 1
I've been feeling not too well these past few days. It is a bit confusing. My heart has been palipitating and I cannot seem to relax, even though I am indeed relaxing. I am not sure, but there is this sense that I am simply not working enough and not getting enough done. It seems like I am, from the outside, but it is not the case. You see, to really achieve something in life, you need to have control over what you are producing and have the freedom and time to produce and work. I have a bit of the control, but none of the time and freedom.
Working is the only thing I know how to do. I have realized recently how awkward I am with intimacy. I am not a stranger to it, but, with women at least, it has been so long that I have been in any kind of intimate situation that I am no longer able to go back to the state. I suppose this is fine since I have no intention--better, I ought to say there is no possibility of--dating and getting involved like that in the future. But there is also the problem that I know a lot of women now--none of whom are interested me like that, I am not a fool here--but the idea merely raises itself. Everyone else does it; they are all intimate with others. This I find curious: my friends, family, strangers--they are all involved with another person, or a series of them. I find it interesting that I am excluded from this natural state of affairs. I never saw it quite this way before, but now I do.
One of my woman friends called me last night and was complaining about some emotional problems. Nothing big, but just due to stress and the like. I could understand what she was saying and I was listening to myself speak to her, and I noteiced that she lacks what I do too: any form of firm emotional support. I have never fooled myself into thinking that I would never need emotional company and support, I was only resolute that in a society premised and defined by such materialism and superficiality, someone like myself would never be able to compete in the ridiculous marketplace of coupledome. It is the truth, and I am glad to be able to stand outside of it, but I am noticing more and more its consequences. I see now why the statistics show that men who live alone tend to live shorter than those that are married.
So where does this leave me? Nowhere special; but the thought has been creeping up in my mind as of late. It actually is strange to be alone, I never thought of it before since I've always been self-sufficient. Perhaps I am not as independent as I once thought.
Michael was existentially meandering at 11:54 AM \\
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