A friend sent me a voice note. He was going through something emotionally difficult and asked me to give him a question he could live with, one that could help illuminate his situation. It was asked in a way that assumed I had some wisdom worth offering. Receiving such an invitation is flattering, and I tend to reactively jump at such offers. If I responded as requested, it agrees with his view: Peter does have some wisdom to offer.
I am losing interest in writing here in the way I have been. I am starting to dislike this name—Less Foolish. It feels limiting, or the way I am foolishly relating to it feels limiting. It’s coherent enough: to be more wise, become less of its opposite—foolish. But does that mean I always have to try to become less foolish? Isn’t that foolish itself? Moreover, the subtle pretense that comes along with all of this—I am wise for becoming less foolish—is not only a foolish pretense, it is a lie.
I responded with a ramble, telling him I relate to his situation and that I feel kind of lost as well. I sense both of us feel a pressure to do something without really knowing what to do. I avoided giving him a question. I did not feel worthy of giving him a question. Instead, I tried giving us a question: what do we need to look at?
Something feels fundamentally off. I actually feel like a fool, and not even in the cute “less foolish” way. If I told these people reading now all the areas where I am a fool, they would not be impressed, and I would be embarrassed. But maybe they’d relate to me more. Maybe this is what having a Substack is all about: having strangers relate to you, and in the process, we all become less strange.
What a lame question. I am so tired of these therapeutic questions; they are so heavy, so exhausting. I was sending this voice note in a suburban parking lot, looking at big box stores, and it was actually a beautiful moment. The sun was hitting Whole Foods just right, and I had no desire for unnecessary heaviness. I proposed another question: what would allow us to enjoy this moment, and the next moment, and the one after that?
Yeah, I am kind of scared to connect with others; I feel it in my chest. I always feel it in my chest. Whenever I feel disconnected from others, which is often, there is this nebulous pain smack in the middle of my chest. I deeply stay with the pain; no memories emerge, or images, or adjacent emotions. It just feels like a rock. A lonely rock.
This question also felt burdensome. Guys like us are always in solution mode. Despite any clever rewording, the spirit is the same: problem over there, go solve it. Can a man just be problem-free for once? Or does he have to solve all the problems in the world for this to happen? I stopped looking for questions and told my friend a story that happened this weekend.
When I submit to the sensation, my body wants to fold inward. It feels better when this happens. When I fully submit, my body naturally goes into a fetal position. I go on my knees and place my head on the floor, resembling a common religious gesture. The pain goes away. So does my mind. I feel good. And lighter.
I told him that Camille and I were at the family cottage this weekend, and we were in total relaxation mode. I felt like trusting this quiet impulse to drive to the local variety store and get a banana popsicle. We did, and we just started roaming the town, following the same impulse. We came across places we didn't even know existed, and all sorts of animals started showing up, including a snapping turtle that looked like it was going to commit suicide crossing the road.
When surrendering to the rock in my chest, I not only feel less lonely but also stop thinking altogether. The end point of all my philosophical inquiries leads to the rock now, and the rock leads to my head gently touching the floor. I guess I solved philosophy. I guess I no longer have to try to be less foolish, only just foolish.
I moved the turtle away from the road, and it snapped at me, letting me know that touch was not consented to. I just looked at it, and the turtle looked at me. I started engaging in this mind-reading technique I learned from pet psychics, where you quiet your mind and, from your body, project your presence onto the animal. When I did that, time stopped, and things started to feel really old. Things started to feel peaceful.
I am reminded of when that turtle was looking at me; he was not impressed at all. He knew I was just foolish, and for the first time in a while, I felt seen.
