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{i do not belong here} jonathan bitz When something in the real world is broken, I do not know where to begin. Going to a mechanic's garage, explaining to my landlord why my gas stove won't work, talking with the bank about some mysterious charge on my account - is always embarrassing for me. Inexorably - I appear as though I have no idea what I'm talking about. And really, it's not an appearance so much as it is the truth. Again and again I've heard from car-people: How can you not know anything about a car? It is one of the biggest purchases you will make in your life and you know nothing about it? In these situations it always feels as though my head is on a broken swivel, staggering somewhere between an angry yes and a frustrated no. I have never conceptualized my knowledge base as correlative to something purchased at a store. To those car people I always say, don't get me wrong, I understand how an internal combustion engine works. Theoretically. I understand that fuel is injected into a small space where it is ignited and in turn, energy is created in the form of expanding gas. I understand this, theoretically - but I don't know how these things work, practically. I say to these people, speaking of important things in your life: Do you know the difference between a priori and a posteriori knowledge? Do you know the difference between Rationalism, Constructivism and Empiricism? Do you have any idea how we acquire knowledge? Inevitably they say no, and I accede - I don't know how we acquire knowledge either. But I have some damn good theories. I say epistemology is more important than automobiles. And mostly - they laugh at me. But, that's where I've put my chips. In theoretical reason. In thought experiments. Not in practical reason. Not, in the real world. The real world, for the most part, bores me. And so here is the picture of me - Mr. Epistemology Thought Experiment, reaching for the Forms and everything that humanity has never understood: There are cliffs all around me. Here is what I sound like, over the phone, when I am falling from one of those ubiquitous cliffs: Yes, hello, so I wanted to query you about the reason as to why the heat isn't working in my car. Some mechanic is on the other end as a random number out of the phone book, one in a number of countless stars in the universe. This, when I've always felt that there was some magical, mystical formula in calculating which mechanic to go to. Or at least that's what I remember about my father's careful investigations and automobile problem solving. Even beginning this process, I am nervous. But it is supposed to snow tonight - and I need my heater to work... The mechanic on the phone says, your heat isn't working? I say yes - I turn it on, but only cold air blows out. At this point I am certain that I could have just said something even more simplistic - more abstract - like, my wheels aren't turning. Or, my engine doesn't seem to be working. I feel like I am telling this mechanic, over the sound of parts churning, hammers falling and people moving in his background - that the sun didn't come out today. And I feel as though he is getting ready to tell me that it's not morning yet. Dummy... Even over the phone, I can feel his eyes rolling. Or maybe those are just mine - fluttering about in infirmity and paranoia... He just says, bring it on in. Let's take a look... As if I am not alone and this has happened a million times before... And so, because I am in a panic - because my new car doesn't have any heat - I rush to the mechanic's garage with that kind of nausea that I only feel when the world is friction and not letting me just slip by unnoticed and unaffected by its revolutions. Speeding there, I do not know what his words meant and I'm not sure what is about to happen. I'm not sure if this can be categorized as an experiment or not... Is this theoretical, or practical? Before arriving, I am playing all scenarios: They will have time to at least diagnose my problem - so I can get back to work. They won't have time - and I will have to skip the rest of the day and I hope my boss doesn't notice my absence. They will find that it's something simple like a hose needs repair. Or a fuse needs replacement. They will tell me that my radiator's fan isn't working and that will cost me tons. They will be able to fix whatever-it-is while I wait. They will make me leave my car and walk back to work. They will be good and kind to me. They will rip me off and tell me that I should just buy a whole new engine. Did I mention that I really do not know how engine's truly and practically work? How do you get to the pistons? Where are the spark plugs? When something in this functional, practical world is broken, I do not know which screwdrivers to use. I do not know which part of the engine to look at first. As I am getting close, I am thinking about my bank account and how much this may cost me. I am only wanting enough money for rent and drinks. Yes, drinks. Tonight. Or maybe right now. I wonder if there is a bar near the mechanic's garage. I pull-in. I get out, tell them that it was me that called - figuring that I should at least put a face on the idiot. The mechanic tells me that he will take a look. I give him the keys - wanting to tell him which key it is that he will need - as if he can't tell by the Chrysler emblem on the very car-like looking key. I settle in one of the wool chairs by the coffee pot, the chair is greasy and blackened on the arm rests and has been looking out through the dusty, worn windows of this shop for years now... I am sitting with my arms crossed - intermittently pretending that I am praying. My arms as a cross, guiding me. Please don't let this cost hundreds. And I am hoping that nobody comes into the waiting room. I hope there is no conversation from a stranger. About cars. I'm certain that anyone could tell that I do not belong here. Then, only ten minutes later and the mechanic walks in to the waiting room. He laughs and I think, okay I was prepared for something like this... But instead of more friction - he says, kindly, your control flip-flopped. What? Yeah, it's blowing hot air when you turn your knob to cold. And it blows cold air when you turn it to hot. Something in the electronics. But it's fine. It's fine? I cock my head and say thank you, what do I owe you? He says, nothing. Just come back. Give us your business. I say, sure - absolutely. Thank you. Driving away I am flipping over the idea of: Why do so many days feel as though I ate something psychotropic and the world suddenly wants to screw with me? Why does life feel so black and white when I am certain that it is, in fact, grayscale? Back in my car and I begin to feel, again - the friction of my heart. Broken and swelling. Heaving and convulsing. For this last while, I forgot about the girl. And the broken heart. Driving back to work, I am actually longing for ten minutes ago. Thirty minutes prior and on the phone. For anxiety. For the uncertain. Because I know, When something in the real world is broken, I do not know where to begin. And then I wonder which world my heart is in. Mine, or theirs... |
