Ellipsis

Ellipsis (el-lip’-sis): Omission of a word or short phrase easily understood in context.

I would never be the same…

“Again” was beyond me. “Again” is beyond us all. A meticulous reading of our way through life yields the insight that nothing is the same—“similar” is the word that the wise use to describe repetition, focusing on the differences between what the unenlightened call the same. At one level, “A” is “A”, at the correct level, “A” is not “A” even though the two A’s are roughly equivalent, they are not identical. “Identical” is a rule of thumb with practical consequences, awarding a common identity to similar things so they can be utilized to similar ends. For example, two slices of toast made from white bread are called “the same” when viewed as pieces of toast, but closer examination brings out their foundational difference: one is dark and one is light. For utility’s sake they can be referred to as “pieces of toast,” and “dark and light,” and be selected or rejected for eating. But at a truly ontological level, their crumbs bear a multitude of differences—real differences, not simply accidents of time and place under the aim of eating them.

Aristotle tried to deal with the identity problem by positing that every individual thing is a sum, or conglomeration, of four causes: formal, material, efficient, final. To know the four causes is to know the thing. But, for example, knowing a thing’s material cause requires “knowing” what the matter’s four causes are. This may constitute an infinite loop that may be escaped from for purely practical reasons, which forestall being stuck in an endless consideration of the causes of causes. For example, if I want to eat an apple, seeing it is an apple is good enough. A botanist would need to know more than it is red and juicy and hangs from a tree. They may resort to constructing a Linnaean taxonomy that extends for pages and pages that may encompass Aristotle’s four causes.

PSTSCRIPT

Who cares? I spend hours banging out these. . .

Screw it.

Let’s just say that what I have written above is an example of having too much time on my hands. As I read it over, I am struck by how little sense I make. It makes me wonder where to turn next in my quest to be Cracker-Jack philosopher instead of a sweaty two-bit taxi cab driver, droning on at my fares in the back seat.

My destination is their destination. I never get lost. I drive here and there and everywhere. The map of London is burned into my brain. Every point “A” leads to a point “B.” That’s. . . Oh hell.

My wife packs my lunch. Everyday, all time it is the same: Egg salad with chopped pickle on white bread, a bag of crisps, a thermos of hot tea and homemade chocolate chip & pecan cookies.

We met in a train station on Jersey, but that’s another story.