Persig, Mythos and Logos.

11/21/04

"If you were riding in an elevator similar to an elevator found in any modern skyscraper, it would take only twenty minutes for you to reach the upper levels of the troposphere," I said.

We had just crossed the low rolling summit of the Gabilans and were headed down the highway into Prunedale on our way to Rana Creek Ranch to buy native plants for the slope in the backyard.

"Of course," I went on, "when you got there, you’d be dead because at that altitude the troposphere doesn’t sustain human life."

“Which one is that?” he asked.

"The one closest to the earth, the one that keeps us alive. Did you know that when you look up and see the flat anvil-head of a thundercloud you’re actually looking at the top of the troposphere."

I’d been reading A Short History of Everything and this was a display of my new scientific knowledge.

"If there was no atmosphere and you got hit by a raindrop, it would pass through you like a bullet. ‘Course if there was no atmosphere there wouldn’t be any raindrops."

I continued. "Human’s can only survive comfortably on four percent of the earth’s surface. If the earth were only fifteen percent further from the sun, or just one percent closer, it would be uninhabitable."

"So what’s you’re point."

No point. I was just making conversation.

I was happy that he was going to Rana Creek with me, I liked talking to him. I hadn’t lately, and I wanted things to be like when I went to Santa Rosa to visit him.

"Well if there has to be a point, I guess its don’t ride up in an elevator for twenty-minutes or if you do, don’t get out. No, actually, I guess the point is that life is incredibly fragile."

“Is there a problem with having to drive thirty-miles to buy plants indigenous to San Benito County so that you can bring them back and plant them where they used to grow wild?” he asked.

When we got to Rana Creek Ranch the gate was closed. We parked along side Carmel Valley Road and after a few minutes we decided to climb over the fence and walk up the dirt road to the nursery. I wasn’t concerned because I knew the manager. We walked a long way up the dirt road that ran up a small valley filled with large oak trees, green grass, and horses. As we walked, one of the horses came toward us and walked slowly up to Morgan. This was all that Morgan wanted.


At Jamesburg the road to Tassajara turned to dirt. We passed a painted wooden sign that announced the monastery was closed between September and May for the monks “silent period.” That was unfortunate because the best times to be anywhere along the coast were October and April.

It’s hotter than hell out here in August, I said.

We passed another sign that said the road was impassable in winter. Though the road was wide and smooth here, I heard it got treacherously narrow before reaching the monastery.

Morgan was reading a paperback book as we drove up the canyon lined with oak trees with long ropes of moss looped through their branches. I reached over and turned the book so I could see the cover. The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis. For some reason we had a number of C.S. Lewis books and he was reading all of them.

So my plan was to bring you up here with nothing but the clothes on you back and a copy of The Silver Chair and then drop you off at the front gate of the monastery.

When you’re ready to come home you can ask someone who’s coming out to give us a call, and we’ll come pick you up. If we’re still alive, I mean.

I thought about how in feudal times the second son was expected to join the priesthood, and how as a second son I had thought of becoming a monk or at least a hermit, and how much that reclusiveness was a part of his nature. I wondered if medieval monarchs had some insight into the nature of sibling birth order and its relationship to personality development.

“Did you finish Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance?” I asked.

Yeah.

So what do you think it was saying?

He didn’t say anything. He was waiting for me to start talking so that he wouldn’t have to speak. This was the way he avoided conversations. I waited silently.

I don’t know, he finally said and then was silent again. This was also what he always did. I don’t know. I dunno. He had been saying this since he learned to speak.

So how does what Persig said compare to what Ayn Rand said? He had been obsessed with Ayn Rand and Nietzsche since high school. I didn’t think he could pass it up.

When I was reading Ayn Rand, I felt bad because I couldn’t build a motor.

What does that mean?

Her main characters where always guys who created things, a railroad barren or a guy who built motors.

“Utilitarianism,” I said. People are supposed to be productive and make a contribution?

Sort of, he said.

And if you’re productive, you’re good? You’re successful? A hero?

Something like that.

And if you’re unproductive and don’t make a contribution?

You’re a piece of crap. A parasite.

So being a human being has no intrinsic value then.

I guess not, but it’s more complicated than that. She’s into exponential growth. You’re supposed to grow exponentially and in order to have the freedom to focus on growing exponentially, you have to produce. The more you produce, the more freedom you have, and the more freedom you have the more time you can devote to growing exponentially, but it really doesn’t end up anywhere. It just goes on and on, gaining freedom, growing exponentially, gaining more freedom, growing more. What’s the point?