Sic transit gloria mundi: a philosophical train ride
Sic transit gloria mundi: a philosophical train ride
The situation with the shelter has not improved (still very long lines, garbage, and many dejected people sleeping outside) but this story is not about my block but about a philosophical train ride
During the times of decay, the decaying world itself becomes an Ionesco play. I will now try to describe just a couple of hours of my life, a New York train ride.
After a short wait, the train arrives. I am looking inside and see a homeless guy, comfortably sleeping on the seat. Catering to the joys of my nose, I run to another car. I am having a good day, so there seems to be only one homeless guy on this train so far. Yay!
At the next stop, a half-possessed guy comes in, crazy as they come. He could probably be treated from whatever occupies him and be much better—which I secretly wish for him because he is my fellow human being and I don’t know his life—but right now, I need to be cautious as he is moving around in an unpredictable, focused, angular fashion, responding to his internal sensations, picking stuff up from the floor, pacing the train car energetically, back and forth, back and fort. Feels like a hundred times, again and again, back and forth. Peaceful, inward-looking, non-aggressive—just crazy as they come. After an endless express train stop filled with his pacing by me very briskly a gazillion times like a pendulum, he exits the car. I am relieved.
Looking around, I smile from ear to ear at the masked co-passengers in my mostly empty train car—but they don’t smile back. Or perhaps they are just as happy about the end of the jerky pacing act as I am—but I can’t see their smiles, hidden behind their masks.
It’s 2023, hey.
Then a Russian dad with a son of about nine or ten enter the car. Both of them look poor-postured, pale, and low on life force. Not unhappy, not tormented, just quietly low on life force. The dad starts telling the kid very loudly about sin, lust, and satanic traps. He weaves a very convincing story through which he tries to stomp out the boy’s desire for pleasant things and replace it with an almost palpable artificial spirit of fear-based restraint.
The child is taking it in and asking questions. The dad is sounding like a simple Russian man. He uses very crude, colloquial words when he describes the satanic traps. It is almost comedic as he is mixing church language and colloquial words. Then suddenly, he switches the subject to “pissing” and talks to his son about that for a good ten minutes, using even cruder words. The child looks stoic and trustful of his dad. But pale, very pale. My inner caring self wants to get them both into the sunlight and make them feel loved somehow. But I don’t know how, their lives are not my business, so I wish them well and forget.
My stop. I leave the train, walk onto the street, and see a disabled, skinny, childlike grandpa in a wheelchair, rolled around by a caretaker. The grandpa is communicating with the world through baby-like squeals.
Seeing helpless elders fills my heart with sadness, so I get into a pensive, philosophical mood thinking about things like, sic transit gloria mundi, and how there was once a time when this grandpa was a man in his prime—thinking about work and women, dreaming of better days—and now he is a skinny, big-eyed grandpa in a wheelchair, communicating with the world like a baby, through squeals.
What is the conclusion? The conclusion, I think, is the passionate, humble joy of life.
There is a lot of crap in this world, yes. There is a lot of pain. But there is also beauty—and love, and total aliveness, and the extremely satisfying commitment to doing what’s right—not out of fear but out of love. Love feels good. It feels good to be a creator and to bring about love.
There will be times when we sing from joy. There will be times when we scream from pain. Hopefully, there will always be more joy than pain. And no matter what, we have no obligation to be zombies. Every moment we are walking this earth is the moment we can choose aliveness and love, no matter the past. And then live it. And live it. And live it until we really have to go, and then we can look back and say that we really lived. It will be a happy thing.
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fair enough. since you've expressed concern for you newer readers, here again is my view on the internet name thing:
is anyone on the internet reliably who they say they are? i respect anyone choosing to assume that everyone who uses a normal-sounding name is automatically someone of honest, forthright character. i make no such assumptions. nor do i assume that those who use a fake name are automatically dubious characters seeking to conceal devious, malicious intent.
when socially engaging on the internet, i am content that our words and actions most reliably reveal who we are, what is important about us, that a name in itself reveals nothing meaningful about a person. to me, this is internet 101. even photos tell you nothing if you haven't met the sender in person.
i've been on the internet since day one. rather quickly i came to the conclusion that a certain degree of anonymity diligently and consistently applied is simply good internet hygiene. in real life, anyone would get my name in a heartbeat. that is, if it were my choice to meet you.
As I listened to Soul Eaters, I suddenly understood why Elon Musk changed Twitter to X. Not that I care except he is also a soul eater and I keep one eye on them off and on, but I saw it.
That and the skies here in rural OK where I live have been marked for weeks with giant X's and suddenly everyone is sick. Oh. Boy.
Thanks, Tessa.