That, right there, is what you call a “teachable moment.”
In one of my flippant, wine-accompanied, philosophical moments, the other night, I found myself saying, “Well, if it’s possible, it’s necessary.”
It just fell out. You know, I was standing around, my mouth was open, and then, Boom. There it was, a whole sentence, a sentiment of ontological bent, floating around the room.
Now, I usually say things for two reasons: Either I like the way it sounds (which is a sort of philosophy in and of itself), or I’m not aware of what I’m saying (which is more often the case).
Of course, far be it from me to retract a statement. Unless it’s slander or the like. No, I’d much rather pretend I meant I knew what I was saying and argue you down. It’s part-hobby, part-the-way-I-am. It’s also how I learn.
Because if I pace myself, and you know as well as I do that Argument is a finely-drawn art, I can find my way out by digging my way further in. In other words, I find some half-baked flaw in my own self-designed debate and make a remark a la “Didn’t I say that?”
To which the response is, No, I don’t think you said that.
And then, I’m pretty sure I did, why I was say anything else? That doesn’t make any sense.
If the wine has been forgiving, so will the other person, and before you can ask for the rest of the bottle, the whole point has been forgotten, or has been turned into a “teachable moment.”
This, by the way, is a phrase too often bandied about in my family, most often used at what I’d considered an inopportune moment, as an attempt to cover over what is more likely a cry for help than education.
For instance, Wynn got his head stuck in the wrought-iron fence during Christmas (as have all of us, at some point or another, be it Christmas or a Tuesday evening) that for some unknown-1960s-esque-decorating reason lines the sunken, inner den at Nana’s house. He has a big head; we don’t affectionately refer to him as Chunk just for the hell of it.
He pulled and gawed and hollered, until finally, he figured out how to remove his head from the grip of the twisted iron.
It was, we concurred, a teachable moment for him.
This only works if it doesn’t happen a second time, though.
The other night—and this has been a month back— it was my head, not Wynn’s, stuck in a verbal bit of ironwork, also known as “chit-chat.” I was browsing around, admiring the handiwork of original artists, at an event known as First Fridays, a local venue that showcases, as you might have guessed, new and original art. I love attending and when able, purchasing some of this art. I’ve lined my walls with it.
And this was a particularly interesting First Fridays that was highlighting the work of what I assume was, by all stretch of the imagination, an “avant-garde artiste.”
Every piece of his objet d’art was rumor-worthy, trust me. There were the usual “attacks on modern society,” such as the reconfigured computer keyboard, and the smashed-out TV set hypnotizing the bowling pins carved into the shape of an armada of swans, if you will.
All clever, indeed.
He also, single-handedly, wrapped every item he possessed in newspaper (the comics, naturally), and made every person in attendance open a present, which he filmed. I ended up with catnip and a collection of CDs by artists I couldn’t have cared less about, but the idea of it, that was appealing.
Even the glass ornaments he’d personally filled with urine.
I know. Right?
I only mention this rather engaging visual (if unsettling) because it was there that this sudden burst of philosophy fell from my mouth, skipping the rim of my glass of Moscato, and thrusting itself upon the ears of those standing beneath these balls of pee with me.
“Is that so, Kris?”
“Is what so?”
“What you just said…if something’s possible, then it’s necessary?”
Tongue-in-cheek-like, I pointed to the glass ornaments of yellow liquid, “Well, it explains this, doesn’t it?”
A tight laugh.
“Yes, but not really.”
I countered, “So, what are you saying? That everything has to have a point?”
What followed was a discussion of Being tinged with Purpose, which I admit I didn’t quite follow to the “flat middle of a solid T,” but I did begin to sense a deeper truth: We just plain don’t like thinks that don’t make sense.
We are a people of Order. And I mean that quite literally.
This artist, for whatever reason, had collected his urine into glass ornaments and then hung them in degrees of yellow hue from the ceiling. From a distance, it was rather nice to look at, because it was “in an order,” a design. Once we discovered what it was in truth, then the opinion shifted and we were, at various levels, appalled, disgusted, confused, intrigued.
Without Order, we couldn’t approve because approval requires labels. And labels, if they’re good ones, don’t need explanation.
Which led to: Is there such a thing as art for art’s sake? and Do we have to “know” why?
The argument deepened, to drastic depths, which I suppose is an important facet of any conversation regarding philosophy. One doesn’t just “go around” initiating new schools of thought without hearty, healthy debate, it seems.
Not that that’s what I was trying to do.
I’d actually and honestly come up with that “what’s possible is necessary” quip as a means of encouraging myself in my upcoming move to NYC; it isn’t easy to uproot yourself at 33 and leave a good job that you’ve got under your belt—good as in salaried.
I guess it’d been wafting around my mind ever since, because, to me at the time, it sounded pretty heady and important.
But, dear god, let the lesson be learned, by all: you better think through the things you let slip on the lip. Because, that comment as a means of encouragement, Fine, it works. But, if it’s to hold its weight, it has to work in all situations. (And I don’t know, maybe it does).
I certainly had no answer, though, when asked, “So, if I murdered you, right here, right now, that’d be OK because according to you, if it’s possible, it’s necessary?”
“I can’t imagine why anyone would ever want to murder me,” I said. My head now firmly caught in its own wrought-iron.
“Yeah, but still…”he said.
I was becoming uncomfortable at this point. I saw no way out.
So instead, I did what Wynn did. I pulled (at my shirt); I gawed (which is sort of like a low, guttural murmur) and I hollered (or, in this case, I laughed, too loudly).
I looked him square in the face and said, “You’ve got to look at it from both sides, naturally.”
“What?”
I had no idea what I meant, but I continued, “…as in, it is necessary that I get some more wine, and it is also…possible.” With that, I slathered on a smile, and excused myself, heading for the Moscato.
Which was safely an entire room away…from him and the urine.
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