Did I tell you I hate philosophy?

Carll and I agree about this, though our reasons differ. Since Carll likes to think, you might think he’d like the product of thinking, i.e., wisdom. He does like wisdom – sofia, in the old Greek sense, meaning know-how. I don’t give a hoot about sofia because my species doesn’t need it. Dogs know what’s doing without a lot of schooling: how to chase, where to pee or beg food. Some dogs are smarter than others – bless you for noticing – but few are debilitated by stupidity. We know what we need to – and ignore the rest. KISS – Keep It Simple, Stupid!

Humans mess with all sorts of questions that have nothing to do with anything: whether the universe began with a bang, say, or the difference between royal blue and a robin’s egg. They wrack their brains over this vapor they call Meaning. What in blazes does mean mean? Signify? Intend? Purport? Inspire? What use are any of these words except to breed more words? Falstaff got it right riffing on “honor”:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedCan honor set to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? no. Honor hath no skill in surgery, then? no. What is honor? a word. What is in that word honor? What is that honor? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday.

Debating such stuff, which has nothing to do with poop, sleep or treats, drives humans bonkers. Who needs it? Leave well enough alone.

Carll likes those windy words. Maybe you do too since you’re here. He wants his life to – get this – mean something! He wonders if he’s bettering earth by his presence. He talks about loving people – hating them – needing them. And about justice, truth, grace, beauty – all these nonsense concepts whirling like scraps in a storm. While he’s partial to sofia, in the sense of know-how, he shudders at the sofia in philosophy, that presumes to explain the whole shebang.

Life can’t be figured out, he hisses. There’s no blueprint or instruction manual. The most you can know is a little about a little. And all these attempts to explain – from Plato and Aristotle on – are piles of pick-up sticks – jiggle one and the whole heap wobbles – and what’s worse, boring as sneezing – and useless as a fire hydrant on a beach. Worse (he’s getting into it now), most so-called philosophers – who these days hang out mostly in universities – write like, like – Carll sputters here – like lawyers, for Chrissake – by the time you get to the end of a sentence you want to shoot yourself. Here’s Hegel, one of their darlings:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedPure Being and pure Nothing are therefore the same. The truth is neither Being nor Nothing, but that Being has passed over into Nothing and Nothing into Being — ‘has passed over’, not passes over. But the truth is just as much that they are not without distinction; it is rather that they are not the same, that they are absolutely distinct, and yet equally unseparated and inseparable, and that each immediately vanishes in its opposite.

If that’s wisdom, order me a lobotomy asap.

Worse still, Carll froths – to me, because nobody else wants to listen – is the arrogance of these concept-mongers, that existence can be disassembled like a combustion engine, each part understood. The most we can know is an infinitesimal fraction, which rounds to zero. That’s what the world is – Wonder, Wonder, Wonder – with an occasional a-hah if you’re paying attention.

Carll rates Love as life’s glory. I rate food.