Fred Aiken Writing

Tag: philosophy

I Like Being…

Daily writing prompt
What’s your favorite thing about yourself?

Every day I wake up, I thank God that I’m dumb. That might seem kinda counterintuitive. I’m sure most people would rather be smart than dumb. But I would have to say that I’m the opposite. The expectations on smart people are truly astounding, and I know that I would not be able to live up to the standards that most smart people have to go through.

Also, being dumb allows me to be consistently optimistic despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Global climate change; we might figure it out. Constant threat of nuclear war and annihilation; hasn’t happened yet, so hopefully it never will. Species dying at an exponential rate; I suppose there’s always cloning. We did it with that sheep Dolly, maybe we can do it with other animals too. Companies are hiking prices up, and governments aren’t managing monetary policy correctly; well, I don’t need much to survive. Just a good book and the occasional movie, both of which the library provides for free.

There are any number of catastrophic thoughts and realities that one is confronted with on a given day, and for me, well, I’m able to sort of brush them off with my stupid optimism. It makes living all that much more enjoyable. You see, if I was smart, then I would be expected to help fix whatever issues humanity is causing and/or going through. And, unfortunately, I’m kinda lazy. I figure it’s better to be lazy and dumb, rather than lazy and smart, since the former at least gives me an excuse for not doing anything to improve the human condition.

Also, I’m fairly certain the world will probably experience some sort of cataclysmic, near-extinction event where a majority of people will not survive. Probably not in my life time. But maybe? And if it just so happens to be within the next 50 or so years, then I’m the right level of dumb to where I’ll be wiped out with the majority rather than being left with the unlucky smart ones that happened to live through and have to figure out life after the apocalypse.

I would not do well in a post-apocalyptic world. I do not look back fondly or reminisce about previous times in history prior to electricity. Every point in history prior to the Industrial Revolution, or even the Internet Revolution, seems like it was a small slice of hell. Disease was rampant. Philosophy was built around survivability. Art was usually subpar, and when it wasn’t you more than likely would never see the good stuff because it was being hoarded by rich, incest dicks. There wasn’t too many books, since the printing press is a relatively new invention (at least when considering the entirety of human history), and nowadays printing presses rely heavily on electricity. In fact, everything does. Most every modern convenience relies super heavily on electricity. All of which I do not think would survive an apocalyptic-sort of event.

So yeah, I’m good with being dumb. Bring on the AI that will think for me so I don’t even really need to do that anymore.

I suppose there’s levels of dumb that I could also aspire to, but at the moment I’m content with knowing so little. I wouldn’t say that I’m in the running for the world’s dumbest person alive, but I’m probably closer in intelligence to the world’s dumbest person rather than to the world’s smartest person, and that’s kinda okay by me.

Sage Riverview

Daily writing prompt
What are the most important things needed to live a good life?

Cedric had a reputation in Riverview, a reputation like the fine mist that lingered over the river every morning—always there, always a little mysterious. He was the kind of old man who could be a hundred or just well-worn by time; no one really knew. His cottage sat at the edge of the forest like a forgotten secret, its windows reflecting stories no one had quite pieced together.

Fiona showed up one autumn day, her city clothes out of place among the pine-scented air and cobblestone streets. She had the look of someone running from ghosts—maybe the kind that follow you through crowded streets, whispering all the things you’d rather forget. The townsfolk watched her with a mix of curiosity and the polite indifference that small towns do so well.

“Looking for Cedric,” she said to the barista at the only coffee shop in town. He pointed her toward the forest with a nod, his eyes saying, “Good luck,” in that cryptic small-town way.

The knock on Cedric’s door sounded like an echo of a hundred other knocks, each one seeking something intangible. The door creaked open, revealing Cedric’s face—a landscape of wrinkles and wisdom, eyes sharp and kind.

“You’ve come,” he said, as if he’d been expecting her all along.

Fiona didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “I heard you know the secret to a good life. I need to know it.”

Cedric handed her a list, written in spidery handwriting that seemed as ancient as the man himself: A handful of patience, a dash of kindness, and a pinch of courage. Fiona looked up, questions in her eyes, but Cedric just smiled and gestured for her to start.

The ancient oak in the heart of the forest was her first stop. There, a fox with a coat that shimmered like autumn leaves waited for her. It led her to a pond so still it seemed to hold the secrets of the world.

“Patience,” said the fox, its voice like a whisper on the wind, “is in the stillness. Sit. Listen.”

Fiona sat by the pond, feeling time stretch and bend around her. The water’s surface rippled gently, each wave a silent lesson. Hours slipped by like minutes, and she felt something inside her settle, like a stone sinking softly to the pond’s bed.

In the village square, an old woman struggled with a load too heavy for her frail frame. Fiona, driven by an impulse she didn’t quite understand, took the weight from her. The woman’s gratitude was a warm light in the cool autumn air.

“Kindness,” she said, her voice tinged with wisdom, “is in the giving without asking. You’ve found it already.”

The river’s edge was her final test. Memories of her brother—his laughter, his absence—flooded her mind, almost knocking her off balance. The river was wild, unforgiving, much like the emotions she’d kept dammed up.

With a deep breath, she stepped into the cold water. Each step was a struggle, but she pushed forward, feeling her fears wash away with the current. When she reached the other side, she was shivering but exhilarated. She had discovered her courage.

Back at Cedric’s cottage, she handed over the invisible ingredients. Cedric took her hand, his eyes twinkling with the knowledge she now understood.

“The most important things for a good life,” he said, “are not things at all. They’re inside you.”

Fiona returned to the city, carrying Riverview’s lessons in her heart. Life didn’t get easier, but it became richer, colored by the patience, kindness, and courage she had found. Her story spread, not as a tale of grandeur, but as a quiet reminder of the profound simplicity hidden in everyday moments.

In Riverview, Cedric continued to live as he always had, a keeper of wisdom in a world that often forgot where to look. And somewhere in the city, Fiona lived a life that blossomed, proving that the best secrets are the ones we find within ourselves.

Tres Libros de Mi Vida

Daily writing prompt
List three books that have had an impact on you. Why?

‘Infinite Jest’ comes to mind first; it taught me that sometimes books are not fun to read, especially when they have an overabundance of footnotes and are overwritten in a semi-academic format with some of the fanciest words ever thought of and strung together. Don’t get me wrong, I still think ‘Infinite Jest’ was a great book and was/is the definitive post-modern story, but I was a dumb teenager that thought I would read Wallace’s magnum opus one summer vacation, and while I did finish it within a month before the end of summer ending, I did not enjoy the experience.

I did eventually go back to ‘Infinite Jest’ when I was in my twenties to reread it, and it was somewhat more pleasant, or at least I felt like I could more easily digest what was going on, but I still have to say that I did not enjoy just how overwritten and bogged down Wallace’s style is with so much description. Way too much description. I’m not one to say that Hemingway’s minimalist style of writing was all that good, since I really did not like ‘The Old Man and the Sea’, but I do think there’s a middle ground between David Foster Wallace and Ernest Hemingway in terms of style and descriptors that is around my tolerance.

While ‘Infinite Jest’ was perhaps one of the first books that I found myself truly not enjoying, I guess the first book that comes to mind that I truly did enjoy and got caught up reading was Mark Twain’s ‘The Prince and the Pauper’. I know it’s not one of Twain’s more well-known books, and I had read both ‘Huckleberry’ and ‘Tom Sawyer’ prior to ‘The Prince and the Pauper’, but for whatever reason I really enjoy the latter. So much so that it was the first book I remember in my childhood that I stayed up to read and finish in an 8 hour span.

There’s nothing particularly special about ‘The Prince and the Pauper’, from what I can remember. In fact, it was essentially ‘Freaky Friday’. I mean, not exactly, and obviously ‘The Prince and the Pauper’ came out long before movies, much less ‘Freaky Friday’, were ever a thing. But it was the movie that came to mind. Plus, the Lindsay Lohan ‘Freaky Friday’ movie had come out around the time that I read ‘The Prince and the Pauper’, and I had a crush on her when I was a kid, which isn’t weird considering we’re about the same age, but I figure that in my adolescent, hormone-addled brain I probably related a lot of books back to various Lindsay Lohan movies, and I suppose ‘Freaky Friday’ and ‘The Prince and the Pauper’ were perhaps the two most similar.

I suppose another comparison one could make between ‘The Prince and the Pauper’ is the story of the life of Martin Guerre, whose biography I read in college. I mean, there are plenty, and I mean plenty, of stories, both fictional and nonfictional, of characters doing a switcheroo both before and after Twain. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is the concept isn’t all that new, and probably at this point in writing it is a bit played out. But when I was a kid and constantly relating books that I read to my celebrity crush at the time to Lindsay Lohan, I suppose I could understand why I might have really liked ‘The Prince and the Pauper’ more than any other book at the time.

There are quite a few books that have had an impact on me. Anything from the Beat Generation to modernism and post-modernism. I think a majority of my book choices have generally stayed within the range of being written in the past 100 years to now. I definitely was never a fan of Romanticism or Shakespeare or the Enlightenment periods and their style of writing. But when I think on it a bit, I suppose I’d have to say the third book that had a major impact on me was Ken Keseys ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’.

Again, I was a teenager at the time, though I have since reread ‘Cuckoo’s Nest’ multiple times since, and it has stood the test of time as one of my all-time favorite books, but it also happened to be a time where I became really obsessed with psychology and mental illness when I first read the book. I was going through some mental struggles myself, and for some reason the story a psych ward patient, McMurphy, faking mental illness to get out of prison and then rebelling against the authority of Nurse Ratched, who then subjects McMurphy to electroshock therapy and then eventually a lobotomy before being mercy killed by the narrator, Chief Bromden, a Native American psych patient pretending to be deaf and mute, who then is inspired by the spirit of his dead psych-ward friend to escape himself really resonated with me at the time.

I did eventually find myself in a psych ward myself, a couple of years after reading reading ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’. It was in the late 2000’s, so obviously lobotomies and electroshock therapy were no longer practiced. But I do feel as if drug-induced, semi-temporary lobotomies are still being practiced through the administration and management of various psychic drugs to quel various mental illnesses. I think that experience even more so heightened my connection to Ken Kesey’s work.

But like I said, there are quite a few books that I’ve read that have had an impact on me, some more than others. I do read quite a bit. I’d probably say I read about 2 books a week on average, so there will definitely be some that don’t really mean anything. I’d probably say at least one book every 2-3 years comes along and has a larger impact and influence on me than others. Though I suppose I do sort of relate the 3 aforementioned books as being the most impactful due to the significance they played in developing my mind at an age where my brain was still forming higher level thoughts and I was beginning to think about my place within the world, philosophically, morally, and all those grand things.