Tuesday, July 12, 2016
He Who Shall Not Be Named
For some reason, this passage in A Philosophy of Walking describing the Cynics struck me as a coincidental zeitgeist of political discourse.
“Apart from their appearance, their language was the thing that identified them. In fact they hardly spoke, but rather barked, a raucous, aggressive discourse. When they reached their destination in the public square, after walking for days, people flocked to hear them bawling, haranguing the rapt mass of the crowd, all hugely enjoying the furious rant, but vaguely disturbed by it too. For everyone felt accused and criticized for their habits, conduct and convictions. These sermons were not, however, convictions. These sermons were not, however, erudite demonstrations or moral dissertations. The Cynic barked, in short angry yaps, but insistently. Rather, a series of summonses, quips that cut in all directions, white-hot imprecations that spread like dye”.
Gros, Frederic (2014-04-08). A Philosophy of Walking (pp. 131-132). Verso Books. Kindle Edition.
Apparently, all that's left for Trump to do now is go full-Diogenes and masturbate in public.
Conversely, perhaps it will take a Cynic to expose the hypocrisy of the Trump campaign, to expose and renounce everything that has "gone through on the quiet."
I walked ten miles on Sunday.
I don't know why but just felt like it. Three miles in the morning; four at the gym, and three more that evening. It felt great. There was a feeling of regeneration and presence, without all the spooky mysticism. I had no shrines to visit, no animals to sacrifice to the gods, and no money to toss in an offering plate. I just put one foot in front of the other and let my mind wander to faraway places.
There was no need for transfiguration or transcendence, just the grounding with mother earth--a son of the soil.
That was a great passage for me--son of the soil. It took me back to my younger days of walking barefoot around the foothills of Appalachia. With my grandfather's .22 rifle in hand, empty pop bottles and cans along Barretts's Creek didn't have a chance. It was a John Prine-esque existence.
Spiritual, Dr. Oliver might say--and I would have to agree.
DQ: Does walking somewhere to see a sight offer a higher value of experience, rather than just driving there.