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Chapter 1
I'm taking this
philosophy course called "Learning to Think." So the TA who
runs the discussion-classes tells us we have to keep a journal
- of our thoughts about thinking throughout the semester.
I think that's a good idea. There, that's my first journal-thought.
Wait! It's the first thought I've written down in my journal,
but is it really my first journal-thought, I mean, the first
thought I had once I sat down to take care of this journal-business?
God, this is going well. (Should I have mentioned God, since
I don't really intend to think about him at this time?) Anyhow,
my truly first thought..., well, it was about the TA. I'm
not sure it was what philosophers mean by a thought. I don't
get the impression from the philosophers we're reading - big
names like Plato and Aristotle and René Descartes and Ludwig
Wittgenstein - that they thought a lot about women. Plato
liked guys, so you couldn't expect anything interesting from
him about girls. But it isn't just that. At least Plato has
something to say about sex in his writings, even though it's
hardly x-rated stuff by our standards (despite being gay).
The other philosophers don't say a word about it. (Ludwig
Wittgenstein was of the gay persuasion too, but he didn't
out and announce it in his philosophy the way Plato did, so
he's no help to anyone.) Like it's beneath them, too physical,
too everyday. It's the biggest fucking mystery since the big
bang, but hey.... Maybe they thought there was nothing in
it to think about. It was all action and no thought. That
could explain it. But if you're going to make thinking your
business, shouldn't you be thinking about everything? That's
what I think.
So, using the
above logical methods of thought, I've come to the conclusion
that it's appropriate for me to be thinking about the TA.
Not just appropriate but (if you consider data supplied by
parts of my body lacking in free will) necessary. Okay, I'll
be serious. What goes on, I ask myself, when I'm doing what
I have reason to call "thinking about the TA"? (I think, by
the way, that I put the last question rather well, by the
standards of philosophy in any case. It's more or less the
way Professor Smart, our lecturer - do you believe the dude's
name? - , states, no, "formulates," - his questions.) It turns
out that several things are going on. First of all, I'm seeing
a picture of her in my mind. So, is that actually thinking,
or is it seeing? I say, thinking. Because I'm not really seeing
her, because my eyes aren't doing it, so "seeing" is just
a figure of speech for something happening...yes, exactly,
in my thoughts. If it's happening in my thoughts, then it's
thinking. (Shit, I'm good at this. I'll probably major in
philosophy. But you don't decide that until your junior year,
so I've got a couple of years to fool around with it. I wonder
if the TA will still be here when I decide.) Okay, seeing
the TA in my mind IS thinking. So what does that get me? Excuse
me, US. Philosophers always talk as though it's a group effort.
We're all seeing this picture of the TA, Nicole Altman, in
our collective mind. So what does that get us?
Let us be frank.
(Why not? I can always delete this later.) The first thing
it gets us is a bunch of erections. (Or one collective erection?
Too weird.) That's assuming "we" are all male, of course.
However, since the existence of girls has been overlooked
by philosophers, it is a fair assumption that we are all males
here. I surmise (pause to enjoy having used this word)...I
surmise that we all agree - eagerly, I would bet - that a
girl, like our TA for example, can be an object of thought
despite the fact that we philosophers don't officially believe
in her. I find it particularly challenging to this belief,
or unbelief, or disbelief - that's the word I prefer, "disbelief,"
since it describes how I feel whenever I see a girl, especially
a beautiful one like Nicole Altman, who's a perfect Platonic
idea of a girl (except that Plato himself didn't happen to
have such an idea, being drawn to oiled, naked boys down at
the corner gym, to which I reply, Dufus!).... I was saying
that I find it challenging to the non-existence of girls as
posited by philosophers that the object in question, Nicole
Altman, is not only a girl, but a Teaching Assistant in the
Department of Philosophy. Because there is an excellent chance,
given the apparent purpose of the Department of Philosophy
in hiring teaching-assistants, not to mention the fact that
they are all graduate students OF philosophy, that the holder
of the position of Teaching Assistant in Philosophy will be
an actual philosopher. So Ms. Altman (as she prefers to be
called, hence proving that she proudly acknowledges herself
to be female without giving Plato and Ludwig Wittgenstein
the time of day) is both girl and philosopher. Is this a paradox?
Maybe. I mean, Perhaps. But at least it justifies us (are
we all still here?) in thinking about her, even if the great
thinkers of yore aren't going to lend us their wisdom for
this fruitful activity. We'll have to address the problem
all by our lonesome.
Problem? The truth
is (I may get back to the question of WHAT truth is - I suppose
I'll have to to pass the course), it's no problem at all thinking
about Ms. Altman. The reason is: beauty, i.e. hers. Without
taking up the issue of what is beauty, I think I've established
that, sometimes anyhow, beauty helps you think, making the
object of thought wonderful to think about. I remember the
first day of lecture-class. Of course, it was only two weeks
ago, but I remember it as though it were yesterday, or right
now. Because that's the effect the teaching-assistant has
on me. Anyhow, Plato says (I think) that real knowledge is
just remembering. So there it is. We're all drifting into
the class-room, a lot of us because the course is required,
and I notice this truly lovely, rather small girl in a maroon
jersey and short black skirt taking her place at the end of
the first row. She's got long dark hair, slightly frizzy,
and she's wearing glasses and also lipstick. I like both those
things on girls: not only lipstick, but glasses. If anything,
I thought this girl was young-looking even for a freshman,
and I remember (after all this time) wondering if maybe she
was an advanced-placement student or some such thing. She
certainly looked bright and sharp. But I thought - I was already
thinking, you see, even before the lesson began - she'd probably
have looked younger without the wonderful lipstick and brainy
glasses, so it was clever of her to wear them now that she
was in college.
Professor Smart
lectured for an hour or so, living up to his name as far as
I could tell, mentioning this and that philosopher as if he
spent Friday nights out with them, and telling us how hard
it is to think about anything, let alone about thinking, but
well worth the trouble, he said. He made some jokes, quite
a number in fact, including one about horticulture and political
correctness for some reason I didn't follow. "You can lead
a whore to culture," he said, "but you can't make him or her
think." We all enjoyed being let in on this adult humor, though,
since it certainly wasn't the kind of thing you got from your
high-school teachers. And then he got really thoughtful and
said, "So, ladies and gentlemen, you can learn how to think,
but nobody can make you do it, and not just anyone can teach
you how to do it either. I'd like you to meet one person who
surely can" - (I have four professors, and every one of them
loves the word "surely"; I'm getting fond of it myself) -
and then he signals with a wave that someone at the end of
the first row should stand up and he says, "Miss Nicole Altman,
your discussion-class instructor," and up stands my so-called
advanced-placement freshman, with this pretty, very adult
smile on her red lips and her hair falling over her shoulders
down to the tops of her breasts, which stood out in her jersey
with impressive authority and firmness, especially considering
their small size. When she turned toward Professor Smart and
her back was to me, I strained to follow the outline of her
bra-straps across her shoulders. I don't know why, but this
sight filled me with profound love and tenderness for the
TA.
-=o=-
It was just after
the first class-meeting with the TA, the one in which she
assigned this journal and in which with considerable effort
I restrained myself from raising my hand and announcing my
total loyalty to her and my readiness to defend her honor
against all foes and asking if anyone had a problem with that.
That same afternoon
I'm in Toiletries-R-Us and I'm heading, as I always do in
super-drugstores, down the feminine hygiene aisle. Of course
I can't linger there the way I'd like. I have to make it look
like I've taken a wrong turn. But there's still a charge in
it for me. Just to think that every single woman you know
has to visit this section of some store, that it's universal
and categorical and necessary (see, I'm not forgetting the
purpose of this journal, which is to help me learn how to
sound like a philosopher)...that causes me an incredible amount
of arousal. So I'm striding purposefully down the aisle, doing
my quick corner-of-the-eye inventory of napkins and cramp-relievers
and disposable douches, and I brush against the retreating
arm of a customer who's just taken a feminine-hygiene item
from the shelf, and she drops it - she drops the carton of
tampons. I start to apologize, and who is she but Nicole Altman,
beautiful and very bright TA, in snug blue-jeans and a light
cotton sweater. I drop to my knees and retrieve the carton
and hand it up to her. (This act was surprisingly pleasurable.
The knees, it turns out, are an excellent position to view
a beautiful lady from. Nicole Altman looks taller than she
is. She's short, actually, but while I was down there I learned
why she doesn't look it: long leg-to-height ratio.) I'm about
to say, "There you go, Ms. Altman," or "Sorry about that,
Ms. Altman," or, "Hey, Ms. Altman, fascinating class today.
Here's your...your...item." But then I realize that of course
she doesn't recognize me yet. It's only the first day and
there are two dozen of us in class. So I simply apologize
for being clumsy, climb to my feet and make my getaway, reviewing
as I scramble all the information I've collected on this unplanned
foray into Nicole Altman's life, everything from preference
in absorbency to lack of preference for applicators. Of course,
I've also noted the Miss Smoothie razor-cartridges and the
Lady Verbena All Natural Deodorant and various shampoos and
soaps in Nicole's basket, and they give me food for thought
as well. I am so turned on by cleanness. Nicole curtly thanks
me as I go.
The things that
then occupied my mind! I think details would not be appropriate
here. But I certainly meditated with some rigor on Nicole's
probable behavior once alone with the product in question,
focusing on how SHE, the woman, would intuit the experience
of insertion. This is called by philosophers "the problem
of other minds." To my mind, to cite but one example, it was
a matter of the greatest interest that Nicole would have to
experience her own pubic hair as she proceeded to introduce
the tampon into her vagina. What a sensation that must be,
I meditated. Hair...very dark and in a perfect Euclidean triangle,
as she would know a priori after fifteen years of seeing herself
in the mirror...hair softly curling at the tips of her beautiful
sensitive digits as they ease the way for her cotton guest
into heaven's vestibule, and then the warmth and moisture
of her lips around them and "him." I drew conclusions as to
the injustice of the fact that for Nicole herself, the "other
mind" in this case, a naturally glorious experience, which
she had full freedom to linger over besides, would appear
completely ordinary and uninteresting. Philosophers refer
to this as the problem of appearance and reality. Plato makes
a very sharp distinction between the two, and I have been
in total agreement with him on this point since bumping into
Nicole in the drugstore.
-=o=-
Since writing
the previous paragraphs, I've heard another lecture by Professor
Smart and had two more discussion-classes with the TA. From
all this philosophizing, I've discovered that I made a few
serious mistakes of reasoning in the first pages of this journal.
First, I speak of existence, and even worse, non-existence
as qualities, which I now understand they're not. (Don't ask
me what they are, though. Professor Smart is keeping that
to himself for a while.) And then, stupidity of stupidities,
I actually use the phrase "posit non-existence," which looks
okay but makes no sense, just like certain people in my "Learning
to Think" class. Like the ones who laughed at me in Ms. Altman's
class when she asked, "What does Plato mean by Truth?" and
I blurted out, "What do you mean by 'mean'?" and everyone
- everyone except the Divine Teaching Assistant - thought
I was clowning. But Ms. Altman nodded thoughtfully, then asked
my name, and when I told her "Joseph," she automatically called
me "Joey," which amazed me and caused something that didn't
logically follow to occur in the part of me that we males
are said to think with. I thought Ms. Altman gave me an odd
look, though, as if she was trying to remember why I looked
familiar. "Thank you, Joey," she said, "that's a thoughtful
question." When she asked if I had any idea how to answer
it, I froze. I had this crazy idea that Ms. Altman could see
me through my clothes, that she saw my erect penis pointing
straight at her like a "One Way" sign. I felt that, if this
were...well, if this were what Professor Smart would call
"the case" - I mean, if I was transparent to the TA with my
straight-arrow hard-on - then it wouldn't embarrass me at
all. I'd be proud to have her see how responsive and dedicated
to her I was. This also gave me an idea that unfroze me.
"Well, Ms. Altman,"
I said, "I don't have the whole answer...I mean, of course
I don't...but I know that one way...sometimes...you explain
what you mean is by just pointing...at the thing you mean...I,
uh, mean." The kids laughed again.
The TA didn't
think this was hopeless. In fact, she thought I was doing
some real thinking, "Joey." She said I had discovered a kind
of meaning called ostensive definition. I very much wanted
to thank her and to say "Ma'am" as part of it. Just thinking
about calling Ms. Altman "ma'am," young-girl-looking Ms. Altman,
the youngest female, I suddenly realized, who'd ever had official
power over me - just thinking about this had the effect of
firming up my ostensive definition of MS. Altman.
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