The Philosopher

“How could they see anything else if they were prevented from moving their heads all their lives?” – Plato, The Republic

The philosopher got on the number 34 bus heading east, making his way to the very back.  The first step in his journey.  Grabbing a forgotten newspaper on the seat next to him, he turned to the obituaries and smiled as he read the statements families wrote for their deceased. 

“Oh Death, the Great Equalizer,” he murmured audibly, only to see several heads turning back towards him. 

People stare, he thought, they have nothing better to do but stare.  The obituaries comforted him, though.  He wasn’t going to give up that morbid pleasure for the mere sake of others.  Although the philosopher believed life had no intrinsic value or meaning, there was something fascinating about those who believed in an afterlife – that there was more to life than just merely existing.

****

He called himself a philosopher, just to make things simple.  His worldly vocation was as a baker, but spiritually, he was a philosopher.  He had been one since his second year of university.  It saved him time from thinking of a possible use for his degree when people asked what he planned to do after graduation.  To ignore the fact that he worked as a baker in his last year of undergrad, with no intention of moving on, he told people that he planned to be a philosopher.  It was his way of saying that all he wanted to do was sit in his black leather chair in his dreary basement apartment, reading, and drinking organic fair trade coffee (to add a little do-good mentality to his existence).

Taking an intro to philosophy course in his second year changed his university experience.  He came from a small town where he was known as a god – admired by all.  Moving away to the city, though, belittled him; made him of national unimportance.  Learning all kinds of concepts and notions in his lectures opened his eyes to see the vanity within himself.  Believing in existentialism caused him to re-examine his life, and through a set of ironic circumstances, the once worshipped teenager of a small rural town, soon became a nameless face in an urban environment.

The philosopher felt it best to remain uncorrupted by the world around him – un bon sauvage, in his own terms.  All the books he read screamed the message of “Man is Beast”.  To abstain from this concept, he had given up on worldly goods, or so he thought.  Giving up his television and video game consoles seemed like enough to constitute a set-apart lifestyle.  Living with only a bed, a desk, a desk chair, a coffeemaker, a fridge, a microwave, a stove, a lamp, a bookcase, and a small collection of books to fill it – books about how Canada conquered the West, the Civil Rights Movement, and philosophical works about the massive period of global decolonization – added to his abstinence from possessions.  A minimalist with a cluttered mind. 

His apartment was small.  Sometimes it felt like he lived in a cave - unaware of the world around him, watching the dim light of a candle flicker, casting shadows on the walls.  The grey paint screaming mediocrity and dullness.  The walls acting as a subtle reminder of how confining a space can be.  It wasn’t that he was pious or hermetic; no, far from it, but he believed that one could only obtain true knowledge when one devoted one’s mind to rise above consumerist desires.  Knowledge was something one attained without supernatural aid.

For all this separation from possessions was worth, though, he was weak when it came to his shoes.  He always needed an expensive pair, a stylish pair.  He didn’t have the money to spend on shoes, so his credit card became a great friend in those moments.  He dressed in hand-me-downs from his dad with the intention of looking aloof from society, but his intentions worked against him when people were drawn to his ripped, dirty, sweaters and expensive loafers as signs of an indifferent musician.  The philosopher liked the attention.  It gave him a sense of purpose when existential angst invaded his very core.  He continued to feed his vanity by buying new shoes that gave people the impression that he was rich, yet uncorrupted by wealth.  He tried to fight against his narcissism, but every compliment he received was one more reason to persuade people into thinking he had the answers to true happiness.  He did feel odd walking around the mall when his beliefs told him to stay away from consumerist institutions, but he only shrugged.

The philosopher had a wise, mature face.  It looked old compared to the rest of his athletic body.  He had protruding green eyes that seemed to have found the elixir of life.  His eyes glazed as he listened to his professors’ speak, his mouth pouting in a Trudeau-esque manner.  He looked like a poster for a political campaign.  Young, but old; trendy, but stark; alluring, but aloof.  He would come in late for every lecture, run up to the front, and plop himself down in the seat, causing the whole row of theatre seats to shake.  A minute before class finished, he would raise his hand to start a debate with the professor, keeping students against their will.

The philosopher would be graduating in a few weeks, but had two final papers to write.  Any normal student would call it procrastination, but being a philosopher, he had to liken it to deeper human emotions.  So, in what he considered a moment of genius, he called his problem “the genius time-constraint syndrome” to justify his lateness.  Time is always being constrained, and he did not see the need to conform to the time limits set on him by capitalist society.  Despite this belief system, he still had two papers due in a few hours for his back-to-back lectures, which he hadn’t started.  In a moment of brilliance, he typed away on his laptop, a consumer good he mildly overlooked for its usefulness, finishing, printing, and stapling one paper in about an hour.  He placed it in his backpack and breathed a sigh of relief.  He would finish the other one later, but now he had a chance to reward his success with a new pair of shoes by killing time at the mall.  He preferred to buy shoes online, yet there was something about the mall that appealed to the philosopher.  It made him feel rebellious.  It made him feel like he was illuminating himself to the real world – that seeing all kinds of people pass by would enter him into the realm of understanding and goodness.  He thought making this journey to the mall would give him an opportunity to encounter himself.  That’s what philosopher’s did – they studied, they gathered wisdom.  He put on his expensive brown leather loafers, and left.

****

After looking at his newspaper on the bus, he decided he would put it aside and look out the window.  He loved to watch people pass by.  The colours of the world around him gave him inspiration.  The people on the streets were his muse.  He loved how they dressed.  He loved how each person was unique, an individual.  He hummed loudly, causing those sitting nearby to look over with menacing stares and scream at him with their eyes.

As he continued to glance out the window, he noticed some sort of bright green thing coming towards him.  He looked up, only to notice a young girl wearing a black tutu, black tights, black wedges, black tank top, and bright green straight hair with black headphones adorning her crown.  She sat right next to the philosopher, taking out her iPod, listening to strange sounds at an ungodly volume.  The philosopher deciphered this as techno music.  He gave the girl a disapproving glance, as techno music was not part of his lifestyle.  Rather than applaud this girl for making a non-conformist statement and find inspiration from her, the philosopher looked at her as though she belonged to a different species.  I can’t believe someone let this girl out of the house like that, or that she even let herself out.  Maybe she should go back to that yahoo-land she came from.  And figures she’d come sit next to me and blast that strange synthetic music. 

The girl took her headphones off her ears and turned to the philosopher, “How do I get to Jamieson’s Library from here?” she asked shyly.

He responded with a warm smile, trying to sound authentic, “Oh, Jamieson’s Library?  You’re actually on the wrong bus.  You have to take the 37 North to Jamieson Street and then you’ll see it on the left.”

The young green haired girl looked confused, as though she didn’t expect to be given those directions, but she quickly got off at the next stop, thanking the philosopher abundantly for his help.  As he saw her run off, he smirked, thinking that was too easy.  He’d never have to see her again, and could enjoy his peaceful bus ride to the mall.

The deed was done.  He had conquered her in a battle of wits.  He could sit in peace for another three stops.  He could think about less trivial subjects than green hair and techno music, and focus on grander things, like finding one’s place in the universe.  

The philosopher pulled the string to indicate he would be getting off at the next stop.  The bus doors opened.  He quickly ran out, shoving the newspaper in his backpack.  He loved to be downtown.  Smelling the fresh spices of Indian cuisine, hearing the melodramatic tunes coming from the trumpet player on the sidewalk, seeing the bright colours people adorned their bodies with.  The sidewalks were crowded.  It was a philosopher’s dream.  There was much to absorb, and he liked to think of himself as a sponge – taking in all kinds of qualities from others in order to squeeze out true knowledge – impart his wisdom.

He saw a homeless man on the street corner, holding out a dirty baseball cap, waiting for change.  The philosopher saw people pass him by without as much as a second glance.  He was disheartened by their lack of sympathy.  The philosopher walked towards the homeless man.  The man had a mature face, leathery in texture.  His skin was dark and weather-beaten with deep-set wrinkles.  He lacked freshness and youth.  He lacked grooming and personal hygiene.  People were appalled, rather than drawn to him.  As the philosopher walked closer, the homeless man mouthed something to him. 

“I don’t have any change to give you,” the philosopher answered kindly, while interrupting the man.

“I just said good morning to you,” was the man’s reply.

He looked down at the philosopher’s shoes. 

“I had a pair just like that when I was young.”

The philosopher smiled and nodded.  He looked down and noticed the homeless man was barefoot.  A pair of dirty ripped running shoes lay beside him.  He didn’t know what to say to the man, so he just walked away.  At least I talked to the guy, he thought.

“God bless you!” yelled the homeless man to the philosopher, as he continued to walk away.

Like God’s blessing will help me, he sarcastically thought, chuckling to himself.   

The philosopher made it to the mall.  He felt odd going inside, as his beliefs told him to stay away from consumerist institutions, but he needed those shoes.  Why should one expensive pair matter anyway?  He never bought anything else.  This he thought was a great philanthropic act – refuse to buy for oneself to leave more for others.  This to him was the same concept as loving your neighbour as yourself. 

The mall amazed him.  The grandness of it all.  He was breathless as he stared up the escalator, dazed as to where to start.  Several floors filled with any consumer’s dream.  The mall covered many square feet.  His feet would certainly ache in the process.  He would need a new pair of shoes after his journey from store to store.  He found a store on the fourth floor.  He tried on a pair of brown leather boat shoes.  A perfect fit.  Comfortable.  Stylish.  Weather resistant.  Definitely a necessity.  He charged it to his credit card and walked out.  The bag from a designer store standing in stark contrast to his father’s grey Canadian loon sweater he now appropriated.

The philosopher returned home and put his new shoes on.  He walked around his apartment admiring the comfort his feet felt, all cushiony inside.  He wouldn’t be on a boat any time soon, but at least his shoes were trendy.  He sat at his desk chair and started to think about his day.  He thought about how he could better himself in order to surge up in the world.  He thought about how his journey had been a success – he saw, he learned, but more importantly, he had a new pair of shoes.

The philosopher walked towards his desk.  It was now time to finish his last essay.  With only an hour before his first class started, it was time to buckle down.  With a cup of fair trade coffee brewing, he jumped onto his leather black chair and started to lean back.  He quickly typed away.  In forty minutes, his essay was complete.  He never relied on notes, but trusted in his intellect to get him through.  He printed his essay.  Ten beautiful double-spaced pages on Sartre and ontology.  The Times New Roman font was crisp.  He stapled the pages together, and placed his essay on his chair.  He walked over to grab his coffee mug.  Lukewarm – tasting like vomit in his mouth.  He threw the coffee down the drain, and brewed himself another cup.  This time it was perfect bliss; the perfect temperature, smoothness, and richness in taste.

While walking back to his desk, he noticed his shoes again.  How stylish they were.  The effort that went into making them.  The material from which they were made.  He smiled, as he was proud of his purchase.  Those shoes defined him.  Leather boat shoes.  Slip-ons with laces.  His shoes cast the perfect image; the image of a hip, young, wealthy man with wisdom far surpassing his years – outdoorsy, yet business-like; one of excellent taste, yet detached from the world around him. 

With the mug in his hand, he quickly walked back to his desk.  He didn’t notice a lace come untied.  As he hurried back, his foot fell upon the untied shoelace dragging across the floor.  He tripped.  His coffee flew in each direction.  Landing on his clothing, skin, laptop, desk, desk chair, and his freshly printed essay.  Ten beautiful pages on Sartre soaked and stained.  He grabbed a cloth to clean his desk and try to salvage his essay.  Unfortunately, for the philosopher, white paper and black coffee have never seemed to get along.  He threw his essay in the trash, and went to print another copy. 

His essay would not print.  In his frustration, he kicked his desk as hard as he could.  Out of Paper, he read on his printer.  He forgot to buy paper.  He roared.  The walls vibrated, as though they would soon cave in.  He searched everywhere for extra sheets, but all he had left were a few pieces of lined paper.  Something did not seem academic about submitting an essay on lined paper.  There was no time in between his lectures to buy more – time had run out - so he’d have to make do with what he had.  In anger, he ripped his shoes off his feet, and catapulted them against the wall.  There they stayed, as a taunting reminder of the never-ending fleet of self-discovery.  He had been defeated.  He printed his essay on the lined paper he found, hoping that by some miracle, his professor would overlook the sloppiness.

Class was about to start in ten minutes.  He stapled his essay together, all ten shameful pages, and threw it in his backpack.  He bolted towards the door.  The first step in his journey.  He rushed wildly through his apartment, like the west wind - bringing new life to the decay surrounding him.  Running out the door barefoot, he left his hellish cave behind.  The sun blinded him as he walked.  But as his eyes adjusted to the light, that good sun surely led him.