A friend sent me a voice note. He was going through something emotionally difficult and asked me to give him a question that could help illuminate his situation. He 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, I would be affirming his view: Peter does have some wisdom to offer.
I am losing interest in writing here. I’m starting to dislike this name—Less Foolish. It feels limiting, or perhaps the way I am relating to it feels limiting. It’s coherent enough: to become wiser, one must become less of its opposite—foolish. But does that mean I always have to write in a way that aims to become less foolish? Moreover, the subtle pretense that comes along with all of this—the idea that I am wise for becoming less foolish—is a fool’s pretense.
I responded with a ramble, telling him that I relate to his situation and that I feel kind of lost as well. I sense that both of us feel pressured to do something without really knowing what to do. I avoided giving him a question. I did not feel worthy of giving him one. Instead, I tried giving us a question: What do we need to look at that we are refusing to?
Something feels fundamentally off. I actually feel like a fool—not even in the cute “less foolish” way. If I told the people reading this now about all the areas where I am foolish, they wouldn’t 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: allowing strangers to relate to you and, in the process, making us all feel a little less strange.
What a lame question. I’m so tired of these “deep” questions—they’re so heavy, so exhausting. I was sending this voice note from 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. So, I proposed another question: What would allow us to enjoy this moment, the next one, 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 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, relaxing. I felt a quiet impulse to drive to the local variety store and get a banana popsicle, and I trusted it. 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 about 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 it had not consented to my touch. I just looked at it, and the turtle looked at me. I started using a 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 everything started to feel really old. Everything 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.
If you have any questions, insights, feedback, or criticism on this entry or more generally, message me below (I read and respond on Saturdays) …