Nietzsche, the Fantasticks, and all that jazz. . .

Permission granted

Permission granted

The drama group at the School of Theology in Claremont, CA, presented The Fantasticks about 1970. I was rehearsal pianist, played just enough of the accompaniment for the singers to learrn their songs. I could not play that kind of music although I wanted to so intensely that I was heartbroken when a real pianist came in for the performances. (I could do it now, by the way.) But the producer/director (a close friend) didn’t want a production that sounded like a cross between bad Bach and bad jazz.

Last night, for reasons too complex to try to explain here, I sang in my car all the way home after dinner, “I’d like to swim in a clear blue stream where the water is icy cold . . . just once, just once before the chance is gone. . .” I couldn’t play the piano in the style of the show in 1970, but I did learn all of the songs, for which I am grateful (why do the kids put beans in their ears, anyway?).

Like every gay boy in America, I knew “Much more” before I played it. Barbra Streisand recorded it in 1963. One of my university voice-major friends sang “My Name Is Barbra,” by Leonard Bernstein in a student recital, and that gave us (the “serious” music students) permission to listen to Streisand’s albums. After all, if she sang music by Bernstein. . .

So last night I was singing “Just once, just once”—because I had been talking about what I’m going to do for the rest of my life as a lonely old man.

When I talk about these things, my friends (none of whom are yet 69) think I’m complaining or being depressed, which I am—wait until you’re 69 and see how you talk. Or, perhaps I’m not. Perhaps it’s all a put-on. I love being old. Well, no, I don’t love it. I am surprised by it and intrigued about how one is “supposed” to act and feel. I don’t feel 69, so it’s hard to believe I am. If I’m going to act my age, I’ll have to join the Prime Timers, and I don’t want to run around with those old guys (unless one of them is single and looking).

“Just once, before the chance is gone. . . “

Can you play me now?

Can you play me now?

I published my “bucket list” (sorry, Kay, that seems from this vantage to be a good name for it) here a couple of weeks ago. One of my favorite daydreams is not on the list. I’d like to put into words—just once!—my perception of my life, and, by extension, your life, too. “I’d like to be not evil but a little worldly wise.”

The preceding sentence is so sophomoric—no, teen-agerish—I wish I hadn’t written it.  I should delete it and recast my thinking. But I am sophomoric (always have been), and I’m afraid my thinking is more and more teen-agerish all the time.

About 20 years ago when I was taking courses for my second PhD (none of my friends, I remind you, is old enough to talk about starting their life [1] over twenty years ago), I was bewildered and befuddled by such important philosophers as Nietzsche and Heidegger and Lyotard.

So the other day I decided to try again to read some of that stuff. I found Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil in the Gutenberg Project, and I began to read. I sailed through the first three paragraphs thinking I understood them, and came to the sentence in the fourth paragraph,

. . . we are fundamentally inclined to maintain that the falsest opinions (to which the synthetic judgments a priori belong), are the most indispensable to us, that without a recognition of logical fictions, without a comparison of reality with the purely IMAGINED world of the absolute and immutable, without a constant counterfeiting of the world by means of numbers, man could not live—that the renunciation of false opinions would be a renunciation of life, a negation of life. TO RECOGNISE UNTRUTH AS A CONDITION OF LIFE. . . [2]

Whoa! Perhaps I get it. “Without a constant counterfeiting of the world by means of numbers, man could not live.” That’s exactly what capitalism, for example, is. A counterfeiting of the world by means of numbers. We make this stuff up. Here, trickle down some numbers so a few people are counterfeited to be better or more deserving or—something! Who knows what?—and we’ll make up a society based on those numbers. And everyone else will internalize those numbers and try to figure out a way to get in on the equation.

Or throw some numbers around about, say, the national debt. All that means is we’ve figured out how to numericalize the way we do business so that we always keep (what? 40% of?) our friends poor so we can keep a few rich, and we structure our “national” (another counterfeit number) life around not taking care of that certain number. Or global warming. Or war in Afghanistan. Or the latest iPhone apps. Or—whatever it is you think is real today.

Dementia? Brilliance?

Dementia? Brilliance?

We have a set of ideas about “the absolute and immutable” that we know in our heart of hearts is “purely imagined,” but admitting that would be “a negation of life” as we know it.

Nietzsche was crazy—went crazy. Mad. Insane. Did he think this stuff up because he was insane, or did his thinking this stuff drive him crazy?

And if I keep trying to sort out the real from the counterfeit in the way I live for the two or twenty years I have left, will I be (or am I already) crazy, too? Before the chance is gone.
__________________
[1] Apropos of nothing, I’ve been meaning to comment on the epicene “they.” It is perfectly acceptable in English. Only the most traditionalist academics will refuse its use. “Epicene” comes from the Greek epíkoinos, meaning “of both sexes.” My saying, “None [singular] of my friends . . . their life [plural]. . .” has roots as elevated as saying “his life” would be here. “’Tis meet that some more audience than a mother, since nature makes them partial, should o’erhear the speech.” — Shakespeare, Hamlet (Act III, Scene 3, line 2311). That’s the example from Shakespeare I know best because I played Polonius once.
[2] Nietzsche, Friedrich. Beyond Good and Evil. Translated by Helen Zimmern in The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche (1909-1913). Project Gutenberg. February 4, 2013. Web.

One Response to Nietzsche, the Fantasticks, and all that jazz. . .

  1. Jane Austin uses the epicene “they” all the time.

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