One of my sexual fantasies turned philosophical on me again:
We sat on the lush, unkept, grass of the tree-lined river bank.
"We are what we are, forever more and ever less."
I proclaimed, responding to a statement of her's of such dubious
relevence that I don't even remember it.
"What's that mean?"
She asked trivially.
"We are always more, inscribed as words, as emotions, as a legacy
into the minds of people and forever the records and stories that
they endevour to maintain. Yet ourselves we are less than our own
ambitions and ideals, which we aspire to achieve, and for others to
appreciate."
She paused, looked aside, and as a nearby magpie warbled loudly it
seemed that my perhaps unwelcome philosophising might pass without
response. But then, a little playfully, she asked:
"So am I what I am, or aren't I?"
"Well if you went away and lived in a cave in the desert, and
nobody knew or cared about you, and you never thought about them,
then you would be only what you are and nothing else. As we
interact with people we present them with ideas of ourselves, and
they give us ideas for our own aspirations. But we can't easily
assess whether these trades are fair, or beneficial, because
overall we don't know what we'd be without them."
"So you think I should go and live in a cave?"
"I don't know, probably not. Though I did hear about one old
Japanese woman who lived in a cave deep in a New Zealand forest for
many years, until she was deported a while ago."
