October 27, 2002 One can only study so much Philosophy before the reality in everything dissipates like a camera flash. A weekend immersed in metaphysics has spun me around in a Cartesian circle, but still able to produce ridiculous puns. All these words in my head seem to have been lumped together to form one gigantic question mark made of mashed potatoes or river sludge. It's cohesive enough to stay together, but incapable of supporting itself. Tomorrow's test nay, midterm, will account for just under a quarter of my grade. My senseless rambling speaks for itself. I am actually conducting an experiment to see how long I can write without saying anything valid. Five minutes and counting...
8:04 p.m.
Reading the reflections of Hobbes, Berkeley and Descartes forces me to ponder what reality is made of. After an hour or three, it seems impertinent, because nothing seems real. Every time I looked out the window, I saw a new color on another tree. They are all iridescent reminders of the winter to come. If you ask Berkeley, winter is just a collection of ideas, just as everything tangible is. These knots in my back, the Scroll's printing being delayed again because we hadn't enough time to be through, and the notebooks, handouts, and text on my bed are all ideas. Wrapping your mind around immaterialism gets trickier as the prospect begins to feed on everything you have been taught. "But I thought matter was anything that takes up space!"
I have been tirelessly reading about Hobbes insistence matter compose reality, Berkeley claim reality is what is perceived as mental substance, and Descartes doubt the reality in everything until he realized the ability to think allowed him to do so. It has made the day feel like more of a dream than Daylight Saving Time's end would have otherwise. Every now and then I avert my eyes to download depressing music from KaZaa, get another glass of water, or crack whatever joints are begging to be cracked. Still, the stillness of it all is overwhelming. As if I did not think too much on my own, now it is required to do well on a test about thinking to establilsh reality.
Philosophy is the class I like to kick under the rug and forget about until one of four papers or tests demands I sweep it out. It is an unwritten rule that one class per semester must not receive the same attention as the others. They fit into a category I like to call "dis-course." Basically, three quarters of the time, all I have to do is show up. The reading is done once and notes are taken without effort, granting time to tear through spreadsheets and hunt down NYPD cops-turned professors for interviews. Even though English class is often spent watching movies, there are quizzes on the books every week. Philosophy moves at a snail's pace. It's ironic because we basically sleep through the class while Brown rehashes indubitums and the same four people take turns reading- but she covered each of our papers with "extensive" comments, and graded less than leniently. I received an A-/B+, which for me, sucks. Before you is another reason I must do well on this test.
On Thursday, I wrote a lugubrious entry about how The Scroll is the only thing in my life with meaning, the only ray of sunshine through prison bars, and the reason I still care about anything. Let us move beyond the fact none of it was true. My moods have been up and down as I observe changes in my Dad's health, and his comments about mine. Bard is still up in the air; they have not gotten back to me and I have been too busy and indifferent to care about pursuing a decision. This is funny, because three months ago, all I wanted was to go to Bard. After observing the long faces there and the smiles at UCC, I wouldn't feel oppressed sticking around for another semester. I would, howeever, like to work on getting a different job, but that's another entry.
