feels good to be up another level
expanding the format because i want this to be a space you look forward to visiting #121
📆 New Schedule Alert: Friday is the new Monday (at least for publishing this newsletter!)
Hey friends,
You've probably sensed by now that 'A Barefoot Philosopher's Notes' is an ever-evolving beast. That's because I want this to be a space you look forward to visiting—a community that adds something meaningful to your life. So, I'm making a few tweaks to serve you better.
Starting this week, we're meeting up on Fridays. Why? Because, let's face it, philosophy isn't exactly an urgent Monday morning read. This shift gives you the weekend to mull over the musings. Imagine waking up Sunday morning, coffee in hand, and diving into topics that make you go, "Hmm, never thought about it that way."
📝 More Variety, More Spice
I'm also contemplating breaking away from the single, long-form essay format. Instead, how about three or four shorter pieces? You know, a buffet of ideas for you to sample throughout the week. Like tapas, but for your brain. What do you think? Feel free to shoot me a message and weigh in on the change.
In essence, these tweaks aim to enrich your weekends with thought-provoking yet relaxed reads.
So, there you have it. I’m looking forward to serving you in this way. Meanwhile, keep pondering, keep questioning, and above all, keep growing.
Cheers,
Clay
I often discuss with others the challenge of striking a balance between pursuing one's passions and opting for the security of a stable career. Many gravitate towards safety, believing that this path will ensure they achieve long-term aspirations: retirement, supporting their children through college, or buying a home. The conventional definition of this "safe route" is having a steady job with a predictable income, guaranteeing shelter, paying bills, enjoying vacations, and affording their children's education.
However, the irony lies in the fact that many find themselves discontented in these "safe" jobs. There's a constant yearning for something more fulfilling, yet they endure it, prioritising familial responsibilities. And while this commitment to family is commendable, the question remains: where's the balance? Is there a midpoint where one can say, "I'll take the secure path now, but later I'll chase what truly excites me"?
The challenge is that 'later' often remains elusive. New obligations arise, making the pursuit of one's passion seem ever distant. Taking that leap, betting on one's dream, is daunting. The thought is: "If I don't chase my dream now, when will I? Waiting for the 'right time' might mean waiting forever."
What underlies this hesitation? Is it mostly fear? Is it the uncertainty of the outcome? The risk? Questions linger: "What if I fail? What if my dream doesn't provide?"
I faced this very dilemma with my love for writing. I would produce volumes, stashing them on hard drives and in journals, hesitant to share them publicly. My reluctance stemmed from fear. Identifying deeply as a writer, the idea of rejection was paralyzing. What if my work was dismissed? But by keeping my writings private, I was shielding myself, holding onto the dream of being a writer without truly embracing it.
the siren song of waiting
It beckons to us like a lighthouse in a foggy harbour, deceiving us into believing that permission from some external authority will clear the mist from our paths. Nietzsche, that maverick philosopher of fierce individuality, nailed it when he said that waiting requires luck.1 It's a gamble where we stake our dreams on the fickle whims of chance. And oh, what a high-stakes gamble it is—waiting for someone else's green light to illuminate the crossroads of your life. It's a gamble where the house almost always wins, leaving you with empty pockets and a heart full of regret.
Imagine the countless souls caught in the labyrinth of their 9-to-5 jobs, each cubicle a modern-day cell in Plato's cave.2 They're yearning for a transcendence that's always one email, one approval, one "yes" away. They carry an invisible chain that is heavier than iron and made from their own insecurities, with the support of societal norms and expectations. They surrender the lead of this chain to the significant figures in their lives—parents, spouses, bosses—hoping for the go-ahead to finally chase the phantoms of their unrealised ambitions.
But this lead is a tricky thing, you see. It promises guidance but delivers constriction. Like Kafka's gatekeeper,3 who guards the door to the law, these figures may never give you the permission you so dearly seek. Time, that relentless thief, will rob you of your youthful vigour, leaving you panting on the treadmill of life, forever running to stand still.
We love to romanticise the notion of the "right time," don't we? But let's take a leaf out of existentialism and confront the absurdity of it. The universe doesn't owe us an opportune moment. The cosmic tumblers will not magically align to spell out your name and destiny. The "right time" is a myth, an illusion, an excuse. Perhaps the only "right time" is when the ache of not doing becomes more unbearable than the fear of doing.4
The audacity of action—that's what Nietzsche alluded to. It's not that greatness is as elusive as we imagine; it's our own fear of seizing it that makes it rare. Take the artists, the rebels, the outliers, the Jack Kerouacs, and the Joan Didions of the world. They didn't wait for someone to hand them a permission slip to be extraordinary; they wrested life into their own narrative arcs and imbued them with their unique symbolism and ethos.5
So, if you find yourself standing on the precipice of change, feeling the weight of that invisible chain—snap it. Break free. Yes, there will be consequences; there always are. You might disappoint those whose approval you've sought, but their disappointment is a small price to pay for the liberation of your soul.
And if you still feel tethered to the dock, yearning for that mythical permission, consider this your maritime flare in the night sky. Permission granted. Now, sail. Navigate the uncharted waters of your dreams with your eyes wide open, as T.E. Lawrence urged. Your compass? Your undaunted spirit. Your North Star? The unyielding belief that you are the master of your fate, the captain of your soul.
For while the seas of change are always daunting, the stagnant waters of inaction are where dreams truly die.
Bon voyage.
Throughout history, the act of wandering has been celebrated and romanticised. Some of my favourite philosophers—Rousseau, Nietzsche, and Thoreau—were known for their love of wandering. Moreover, J.R.R. Tolkien, the author of "The Lord of the Rings," famously said, "Not all those who wander are lost."
in losing yourself, you might just find yourself
Sometimes when you go looking for yourself, you get more lost than you were before. And sometimes that's a good thing.
"I feel lost." We often utter these words with a sense of anxiety and existential dread. Especially if you're in your 40s and 50s, because apparently we're supposed to have life figured out by then.
But if you look at this with a different set of eyes, you might find that to be lost is to be surrounded by possibilities—a myriad of roads less traveled, each begging you to take a step. It's as though you're standing in Jorge Luis Borges' "Library of Babel," surrounded by an infinite number of books containing every possible combination of letters.6
Choice is a blessing and a curse; every action is a foreshadowing of an existential consequence that you sometimes dread.
Consider the irony. To look for yourself implies a separation—an "I" searching for another "I," a seeker and a sought. Who's the "who" doing the searching, charting the unknown terrains of the psyche, trying to place a "You Are Here" sticker on your soul? Philosophers like Descartes wrestled with this duality. "Cogito, ergo sum," he cried. I think, therefore I am. Yet, the more you think, the more the boundaries blur, and the self becomes a construct, an abstract notion as elusive as time.
Getting lost can be beneficial. To be lost is to abandon the beaten path of societal expectations, religious doctrine, and cultural norms. Every wrong turn is a lesson. Every detour reveals another layer of your being. I've lost count of how many times I've been lost. Stripped of the familiar, blown around like a seed in the wind, free to take root in new pursuits, unhindered by preconceived notions and habits of being.
To be lost is to invite psychological tension between comfort and growth. You can sense Kierkegaard's ghost looming in the background, warning you against the paralysis of too many choices and too much freedom. But you push into the dark anyway, hoping to stumble upon undiscovered parts of yourself. Maybe you will unearth some hidden fears, awaken your dormant dreams, or discover your hidden potential.
Sometimes being lost is not an end, but a beginning of an evolution, a chance to redraw the borders of "self," to rewrite the narrative of who you are and who you could be. Wander long enough, and you might just find that to be lost is to be truly free—free to question, to explore, to become.
So let yourself get lost. In the chaos of the unknown, you might find beauty; in the confusion, you might find harmony; and in despair, you might find meaning. It's the ultimate gamble in the casino of life, where the stakes are high but the rewards are unparalleled: a deep understanding, a richer experience, and a life lived in the colour of curiosity and wonder rather than in the mere black and white of conformity and comfort.
let’s take a break here for a second
Referral Program
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#Fiction
In a haze of fluorescent lights and urban dust, I sat amidst the hum and chaos of the Bakerloo Line. A girl nearby sported a wild, screaming t-shirt, a technicolor dream in fabric with a big smiling emoji on the front. From my beat-up jacket's pocket, I pulled out a purple pen. No typical red, blue, or black ink for me; purple was for the bizarre moments in my life when things went weird and sideways.
Then, in a whirlwind of chaos, the pen was gone. It wasn’t malice; maybe my hand just chose freedom for a while. Sometimes they rebel against me—a momentary lapse in loyalty. When they betray me, I shake ‘em alive. And sometimes, to clear my buzzing mind, I love to drop heavy books on the floor just for the bang. Especially those bulky old Encyclopaedia Britannica's. I like to pretend I can absorb the knowledge through the sound waves.
Now the t-shirt girl was handing me back my purple pen. Silently, I removed my jacket, revealing my own funky-styled T-shirt, imported straight from Uganda. Our silent tees dance in a wordless jive. I turned my gaze, and my eyes painted wild tales in the reflection of her shades.
An old jazz man sneezed beside me, carrying that old-age scent of worn-out stories. Sneezes always hit me like a sax’s shrill note in the dark. But the t-shirt girl was watching, her head bobbing to a tune only she could hear. The world became notes and scribbles, purple ink dancing on paper.
Three men sat across from me. Their outfits, puzzles of fabric, and intentions What guides a man’s sartorial choices? Jackets, hands, kaftans—they all obscured the truth.
The metallic voice announced "Regent Street," and the carriage started its dance of departure. Ms. T-shirt girl signaled, grinned, and made a move. We played a game with our shoes, a fleeting connection amidst the urban rush of the underground.
Now it was just the girl and me. She pulled out a flask and offered a drink of heady brew. We chatted, our words a blend of beatnik poetry and existentialism. I showed her one of my poems:
And for a moment, amidst the clatter of the train, we found a shared rhythm.
As the train eased into "Baker Street", the rhythm slowed, and the girl made her exit. I stayed, the eternal traveler on a journey to nowhere and everywhere.
The Socrates Express: In Search of Life Lessons from Dead Philosophers
In the dimly lit, tobacco-scented chamber of an old Parisian café, I imagine Socrates would have been in his element—leaning back in a worn-out chair, eyes squinting against the ethereal haze, legs comfortably crossed, an almost divine aura separating him from mere mortals. The Athenian gadfly was never a man of texts but a man of dialogue, provoking, pondering, and—above all—questioning. It's here, amidst the clinking of coffee cups and the low hum of intellectual discourse, that Eric Weiner's book, The Socrates Express: In Search of Life Lessons from Dead Philosophers, finds its natural habitat. It beckons the reader to slide into that vacant chair opposite Socrates and embark on a journey through time and thought.
Weiner is a journalistic Odysseus armed with a notepad instead of a sword. He takes us on a locomotive journey from station to station, philosopher to philosopher. It’s a trek not for the faint-hearted but for those who crave wisdom like an addict yearns for a fix. His prose is a series of meandering but deliberate road trips through intellectual landscapes, enticing us to travel not just between places but also within the expansive realm of ideas. It evokes the eternal search for meaning, like a perpetual rite of passage.
While other books on philosophy are often dense tomes shrouded in academic jargon, Weiner manages to weave the fabric of everyday life into the lofty ideas of thinkers long gone. He is an interpreter at the bustling intersection of humanity and philosophy, ensuring that the signals don't get jammed. One moment, we are in the Swiss Alps with Nietzsche, grappling with the notion of eternal recurrence, and the next, we are wandering through the marbled halls of Rome, juggling Seneca's thoughts on time and life's fleetingness. There's tension, the kind that ropes you in like a suspenseful novel. Each chapter foreshadows the next philosophical quandary to be tackled, creating an intricate dance between anticipation and revelation.
But Weiner doesn't just offer a seat on a "Socrates Express" to nowhere. He connects his philosophical meandering to the grit and grind of our own lives. Stoicism isn't merely an abstract concept; it's a tool to manage the chaotic whirlwinds of modern existence. Epicureanism is not about indulgence but about appreciating the simple joys that we often overlook. The book attains a climax when you realise that every station you've stopped at enriches your understanding of the next. It's an interconnected web, much like life itself. The resolution, if one can find it in the quest for wisdom, is the realisation that the journey is what imbues life with meaning, not the destination.
While reading "The Socrates Express," I could almost hear the echo of a train’s whistle fading into the distance, as if beckoning me to board once again, promising a different journey but the same invaluable search for wisdom. Weiner prompts us to ponder the great questions not for the sake of answers but for the unending journey they promise—a journey that makes life itself worthwhile.
Alright, folks, that's a wrap for this week.
I hope you dig the new format—it's got a bit more meat on the bone, which is precisely why I've moved these dispatches to Fridays. Now you've got something to savor over the weekend.
Picture it: Saturday morning, you're sipping your coffee and getting ready to tackle the day's chores. Or maybe it's Sunday, and you're in full-on chill mode. Either way, you've got some essays and even a dash of fiction to mull over.
I'm all ears for your feedback. How's the new format working for you? Too much, too little, or just right? I'm contemplating adding a "link log" feature too—a curated list of cool finds from my week's internet wanderings. It's for those of you who don't keep up with my social media link-drops.
Speaking of community, let's keep the conversation flowing. You can sound off in the comments below, or, if you prefer a more private chat, simply hit "reply" on this email. Your voice matters—I want this space to be a vibrant collective where we explore life's big questions together.
So here's to a fantastic weekend and an enriching read. Catch you next Friday. Until then, you'll find me tweeting and Instagramming, or maybe even thread-rolling if that's your jam. Cheers to a great weekend ahead!
Peace and love,
Clay
Friedrich Nietzsche often explored the idea of personal agency and destiny. When he alluded to the concept that waiting requires luck, he touched upon the inherent uncertainty of relying on external factors or serendipity to bring about desired outcomes in our lives. Rather than actively pursuing our ambitions, waiting passively makes us mere spectators, banking on chance or the goodwill of others. In the grand game of life, pinning one's hopes on such randomness is akin to a gamble. And as with any game of chance, more often than not, it's the house that wins. By this, Nietzsche implies that when we surrender our agency and simply wait, the odds are stacked against us. We risk losing opportunities, time, and ultimately, pieces of ourselves.
In Plato's famed allegory, individuals are trapped inside a cave, chained and facing a blank wall, mistaking mere shadows cast by objects behind them as reality itself. It's a profound metaphor for mankind's blindness to true knowledge and our acceptance of surface-level illusions as our entire world.
The reference to "Kafka's gatekeeper, who guards the door to the law" is from Franz Kafka's parable "Before the Law," which is found within his novel "The Trial" (Der Prozess). In this parable, a man from the country seeks access to the law but is prevented from entering by a gatekeeper. The man waits for years, trying to gain entrance, but the gate remains closed to him. The story deals with themes of bureaucracy, the nature of authority, and the often insurmountable barriers that individuals face when trying to access justice or higher truths.
Society scripts roles for each of us, defining the stages we should tread and the masks we should wear. Consider Eleanor, a gifted dancer whose heart pulsed to the rhythm of flamenco. Yet the world around her whispered insidiously, urging her to trade her dance shoes for the shackles of a'sensible' career, to choose security over passion. It's the age-old aria of society. It coaxes us with promises of stability and acclaim, but in heeding its call, many find themselves tethered, their spirits encased in a gilded cage of others' expectations. The invisible chain grows link by link, forged from the heavy metal of 'shoulds' and 'musts', leaving dreamers like Eleanor dancing only in the secret theaters of their minds.
Among the annals of history, some luminaries blaze their own trails, undeterred by convention's chains. Take the adventurous Jack Kerouac, who journeyed both the literal and metaphorical roads of America, penning tales that resonated with the restless spirits of his generation. And then there's the introspective Joan Didion, whose sharp observations and nuanced prose peeled back the layers of society, revealing its raw, beating heart. Both never waited for the world's nod; they simply stepped onto the stage of life, their souls the scripts, their passions the performance.
Jorge Luis Borges' "The Library of Babel" is a short story that contemplates the nature of infinity, knowledge, and human understanding. Published in 1941 as part of the collection "The Garden of Forking Paths," the narrative presents a universe in the form of a vast library, made up of an indefinite, perhaps infinite, number of hexagonal galleries.