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    Philosophy 101
    Philosophy 101
    Philosophy 101
    Ebook81 pages1 hour

    Philosophy 101

    By Steve Kenny

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    About this ebook

    The second collection in a series, Steve Kenny's Philosophy 101 paints a picture of life as it is seen from inside the mind, and gives a perspective that will, hopefully, widen the reader's own perspective.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSteve Kenny
    Release dateFeb 2, 2014
    ISBN9781311253996
    Philosophy 101
    Author

    Steve Kenny

    Steve Kenny was born in Chicago in 1961. He has worked as a newspaperboy, a busboy, a janitor, a machine operator, a furniture mover, a dockman, a whiskey truck driver, an OTR driver, a medi-van driver, a UPS driver, a pile driver operator, a landscaper and groundskeeper, an ironworker, a roofer, a custom area rug maker, carpetbinder and highly-rated floor installer. Many of his Smashwords pieces can [used to] be seen at Steve Kenny's Wordpress, and are [still] available at Barnes and Noble, Apple, Kobo, Baker & Taylor, Sony, and Flipkart, as well as other fine bookstores.

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      Book preview

      Philosophy 101 - Steve Kenny

      Philosophy 101

      Steve Kenny

      Copyright 2014 Steve Kenny

      Cover Art Copyright 2014 Steve Kenny

      -Smashwords Edition-

      This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Philosophy 101

      Table of Contents:

      Who, Or What, Determines the Worth Of Someone Or Something?

      Morphine And Roaming Inside A Hospital

      With Dysfunction, English Is A Second Language

      Sleeping On The Train

      Drifting Subconsciously Into the POV Lane

      Of Great Ships And Self-Determination

      A Remembrance

      Tuning

      Heroes

      when no years are light years

      Open Salon: An Amateur's Attempt At A Definition

      Sunday Morning Coming Down

      Message In A Bottle

      Lifespan Of A Royalty Check

      November

      –

      –

      -Who, Or What, Determines The Worth Of Someone Or Something?-

      He had recently increased his efforts to quit thinking, or to think less, yet he knew it was no use, for the problem was not in his head at all.

      The problem, he now realized, was not that his mind had been too open, but rather, that his heart had been too open...

      His body swayed involuntarily in his chair at the small table. His tired, keen eyes burned. The all night cafe was nearly empty: a couple of hopeful prostitutes, out late; a couple of drunks, asleep at their tables.

      His heart was a raw nerve, he thought; the open window to his soul that now let everything in.

      Did he regret learning that the secret to true perception was to see with the heart and not the mind?

      No.

      He had no regrets.

      Yet still, sometimes, he wished he could close that window just a little...just a little...

      He sat there, facing the nicotine darkened room. It was well past midnight. The wind outside blew. He tapped his pipe absentmindedly into the ashtray while the proprietor, dressed in white, tired but patient, stood in the doorway of the kitchen drying a plate. The colors of the small room, tobacco stained reds and greens and oranges, lit by gaslight, had been hurting his keen eyes for hours, yet he was thankful that through a long, steady night of drinking, he'd managed to slow the always flowing ingress and egress of life.Now numb, and barely aware of the proprietor, the whores, the sleeping drunks, the whole sordid scene, he slowly repacked his pipe with fresh tobacco, struck a match, and took a few deep drags to get it going, exhaling the smoke without inhaling and watching the little fire jump off the rim of his pipe, like miniature blasts of hot air balloon flame.

      The pipe smoke hung heavily over his small table, like a little cloud. He squinted and studied the slowly drifting and changing shapes of the little clouds of smoke, and the little field of green below and beyond them, which was, the felt of the old pool table in the center of the room.

      He tried to burn the memory of the scene into his mind before taking his grubby glass and draining the last of the absinthe...

      He rose unsteadily, the guilt of spending his brother's money hanging heavily in his mind. His mind reeled, trying to register the bitter tang of the wormwood. He swayed once or twice before setting the glass down.

      He took a few unsure steps, got his sea legs, and staggered out of that place.The cobblestone street outside was empty, yet dark and windy.

      The shoe cobbler's nails in the soles of his cheap boots were wearing through, so that lately, he had to try to curl his toes and raise the soles of his feet as he walked, so as to try to keep the nails from piercing him. As you can imagine, staggering along, curling his toes and raising his soles, he made quite the sight.

      Yet he was alone, and so, no one saw the moment, while the January mistral pushed against him.

      He pulled his poor coat tightly to him with one hand, and held his hat with the other. Far from home, he had come from the cold north, yet he shivered.

      The south of France was cold indeed...

      He arrived at the little yellow house and let himself in through the unlocked front door. Barely inside, the mistral still gusting, he didn't bother to turn and face the wind, but instead, leaned backwards against the old oaken door, and as it slammed shut, the silence of the house was immediate and repressive, yet still, and noisily, the mistral outside howled.

      He was aware of a strange gladness as he leaned against that door, there in the dark, and found it wonderful and ironic how gladness can come into one's heart even in the midst of lonliness and silence.

      He was home.

      It wasn't much, but it was his home...

      He slowly leaned forward and made his way up the stairs in the dark, drunk, and barely able to see anything in the dim light, but he moved with the practiced steps of a blind man, and made his way, slowly and surely, to the top of the stairs and to the small table in his little bedroom. Swaying like a buoy, he poured himself another drink in the dark, using the same unwashed glass he'd used earlier. Carefully setting the bottle on the table, swaying like a man at sea, he took a drink, then sat down tiredly on the edge of his bed.

      The room, the whole house, smelled strongly of linseed oil and turpentine. Paintings and drawings, brushes and tubes of paint; an old paintbox with tubes of paint, all beside his thoughts, were all that he had now;

      The yellow house in the south of France...

      He listened to the mistral rage outside.

      Inside his head, the

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