Purpose is the delusion we cannot live without. By we I mean humans. Blame our brains for this fatuity. There must be a reason for me being here, we reason, then busy ourselves concocting one. God! Country! Family! Fame! Our loved ones! – each a capacious receptacle for our distress. How about “Comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable” – a misquote that became a bromide (I should be so lucky). We know these purposes are nonsense and know they’re not, because if they were, why bother getting out of bed? That’s my moan this morning: another missive? For the few who care? Why not vegetate here in the dark feeling sorry for myself (only that’s no fun either).
Henry adjudges such mewling contemptible. Maybe he’s not as smart as his bossman – for sure he can’t do math or speak languages other than Dog. But he’s happy – not faux-happy, better-happy-than-sad happy, but truly, whole-heartedly, exuberantly delighted with this amazing dawn. Get up, he noses me, adding a lick for emphasis, the day’s a-wasting – and I’m hungry – and need to pee – and I can’t wait to see what’s doing under the sun!
Henry rates happiness the most persuasive evidence of intelligence. Can you refute him? I can’t – with a straight face. I can reason my way to hallelujah – it’s why I write, I suppose – but it’s a hard go. I treat life as a puzzle, an acrostic, that must be worked out (“This is my acrostic to bear”). I figure on the one hand, on the other, then the other, till I’ve got more hands than Vishnu. Maybe singing sweetly will put my doubts to sleep! Folks want answers and all I can gin up is questions! ARRGH! I ridicule my fatuity, to shame myself into equanimity – not a chance. Such mewling may be amusing to behold but it’s hell to endure. All the while Henry keeps nosing me, adding a yip for effect. I’m hungry, he insists and (more threateningly) I really need to pee.
I see no way out of this pother that isn’t itself a lie. I try not to lie if I can help it. Affection predicated on hogwash is worse than none. Let my love be bitter as long as it’s real. I have no purpose and that’s that. Lamentably, impotence does not relieve me of responsibility. We must make the most of our moment willy-nilly, play our part best we can, because nothing else makes sense. Lying in bed pillow-hugging can’t be the answer. Up and at ‘em, Adam – be nice to Eve – and your kids. Buck up!
My favorite sentence in English was composed by George Santayana. I’ve shared it before and will again, it’s so funny, mordant, and wise. I repeat it to myself regularly, to goad me out my grumps. Its laconic rhythm kicks me in the pants – oh, how I wish I’d written it! “That life is worth living,” he rolled his eyes – I envision them rolling – “is the most necessary of assumptions, and were it not assumed, the most impossible of conclusions.” Reason’s muddle in a nutshell! The more we think, the less we know. Purpose is a cloud, firm and shapely from afar, that vanishes into mist when penetrated. (Jane and I have been flying again.) We soldier on, because to loiter here indefinitely doing nothing, like those vagrants in Waiting for Godot, is a bloody bore. I’m not saying anything new here – “There’s nothing new under the sun,” grumped Ecclesiastes – but maybe I’m saying it in a new way that will brighten your day. Let’s hope.