said his daughter to him one fine morning in the car as he went on about something philosophical.
And he thought, you know, she’s right.
“You know, you’re right,” he said, even.
And he thought, thank goodness I never speak explicitly about philosophy.
Or write about it explicitly.
He wondered what it would read like if he wrote about philosophy explicitly.
It would sound like this:
The elevator starts moving but existentialism reaches over and hits the STOP button with a big thumb. Before Cartesianism knew it, he’s got both of Cartesianism’s hands in a viselike grip above her head and he’s pinning Cartesianism to the wall using his anguish… his other hand grabs her doctrine and yanks down, bringing her face up and his facticity is on hers… Her truth tentatively strokes his and joins it in a slow, erotic dance… His despair is hard against her corporeal body, which she reminds herself is the source of all untruth and illusions.
“It’s all pointless, in the end,” whispers existentialism in a gruff, stubbly whisper.
“That’s how it seems to you,” says heterophenomenology.
“Where’d you come from?” gasp existentialism and Cartesianism simultaneously, still whispering.
“Google Daniel Dennet,” says heterophenomenology. “You might want to try me, though, as an alternative to her,” it says, gesturing languidly towards Cartesianism.
“Not that it matters,” says nihilism.
At the touch of zeitgeist, Cartesianism quivers and gasps. Existentialism shakes his head as if to clear it from cobwebs, and walks around her there in the elevator full and increasingly fuller of philosophies and their throbbing elements, trailing his despair around the middle of her doctrine. The second time around, he suddenly flicks the despair, without any warning, and it stings Cartesianism underneath her ineffability … right in the metaphysical mind … The shock runs through her, and it’s the sweetest, strangest, hedonistic feeling …