FORGOTTEN HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY

FORGOTTEN HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY

History, vast as She is, fails to cover all of her children before she lays them down for that long goodnight, though they will all try as they might to leave hint that they too saw daylight. She chooses those few darlings to which she whispers hint of ever-after, no more than a hand-full from each vocation that has served Her well, and to those other lesser children She simply dates and catalogues them and leaves them in the hands of curious laymen like we, so that we too may discover them and help them carve an epitaph on Her granite back. This verdict holds no more true than for that vocation of king and drunkard alike, the philosopher. In Her fastidious care of Socrates and Aristotle and Plato and Machiavelli and Descartes and those few others we all know well and like, though none of us can quote, She has deprived those many others whose work has ever since been discarded or not read at all. And, so, I will make it my challenge to bring some of these forgotten names to light and offer them too a day in the sun. Of course, there are so many, and I am but one, and the challenge therefore daunting. To even the chances, I will chose only those few that have most captured my attention, and leave those many others to a more valiant man. I will also cover but a short summary of their intellectual musings for the breadth of their work would leave the most ardent of men lightheaded.

Gastropoles (gas-tra-police), born 1432, Mascara, Greece (1/2 hour outside Athens, just past the lamp-oil stand), died.

Best known for his 5000 page volume of works, in which he discoursed on many thoughts, including his theory of “existence”, pre-dating Descartes’ “I think, therefore I am”, and definitively proving that thought not only affirms one’s existence, it can also get you in trouble with under-aged girls.

Under his discourse on existence, he went on to prove that rain was merely an existential extrapolation of the mind and, therefore, did not really exist, subsequently putting his brother-in-law’s umbrella business into bankruptcy and thereby alienating himself form his greater family, though, in a cruel act of mockery, his mother-in-law sent him a broken umbrella every Christmas. He maintained, nonetheless, that his theory on rain was valid and argued quite ardently, in his 5000 page volume, on how to avoid rain and other annoying things. His pioneering thoughts, however, were forever lost, in an even greater and exponential act of cruel and ironic mockery, when he found himself defenseless from a mild leak on his roof, unable to open not even one of the many umbrellas he had been storing in memory of his mother-in-law. His passion lost vigor when he came to realize that disproving rain, after-the-fact, was much like being a born again virgin, a concept much idolized by his young fiancé who was said to convert at least twice a week, if not more often.

Not much was written again about Gastropoles until his later years when he was found running naked through the rain, flapping his arm wildly and yakking like a flightless bird. Soon thereafter he settled down with the help of a very fashionable straight-jacket and a six foot chain.

Scarponi (scar-pony), born 1597, in a suburb of the Vatican (known for its wide lots and olive trees), also died.

Scarponi, a man of great talent, but little acumen (as a young schoolboy he was often taunted about the size of his acumen), got a late start to his pensive career due to a several year incarceration in a home for the clinically insane. He was said not to actually be incarcerated, but instead unable to find the door, although the records are incomplete and most certainly unintelligible. In his frenzied state he was said to have mistakenly called on St. Giles, the patron Saint and advocate of situations inducing panic and madness, instead of Saint Anthony, who surely would have escorted Scarponi to the appropriate exit.

His final pleas to God were successful and God is said to have mobilized several of the mildly insane inhabitants (though some records describe them as mildly sane) to throw him out of the home and into a brand new world of philosophical treatise. Having recognized God as his savior, though If you ask the semi-sane ushers they say God had nothing to do with it, they had just had all they could take, Scarponi devoted much of his time to discourse on God, amidst un-shameful challenges from otherwise invisible bees and other of God’s lesser creatures.

Some of Scarponi’s greatest dissertations were on the topic of God, whereupon he proved that God did exist, but that was a long time ago and we shouldn’t dwell on it. He went on to suggest that God most definitely was in favor of the metric system, though He too was unsure of how many feet to the meter and whether shoe size factors into it. He further suggested that God indeed favored the meek to inherit the earth, though He had not quite figured out the tax implications. He closed his dissertations by surmising that although God created the Universe, he had major difficulty dealing with infinity, and what to charge for public transit therein.

Some of his later works concentrated on the after-life, in which, he argued, housing costs were much higher and fashion was not quite up to par. He went on to argue that God lived in the after-life, though only on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Unlike that other Italian whose work I will come to describe below, Scarponi would not be spared the wrath of the Holly Office of the Inquisition who took exception to his comments on fashion. He came to be burned at the stake, and his last words, though there are varying accounts of this, are said to have been, “Passion, I said Passion, not Fashion!”

Cartarian (car-tier-ian), born 1635, North Prussia, died soon thereafter.

Cartarian’s physical approach to philosophy proved to be the cause of his downfall. Cartarian firmly believed that the art of “thinking” could only be properly achieved through physical means and he went to great lengths to prove his point. His life was, thereby, short and we have but a brief record of his achievements. Cartarian became fascinated, early in his life, with the workings of the yo-yo and wanted to explore metaphysical theory as to why the yo-yo, once discarded by its owner, would return in shameless regularity. To do so, he wrapped himself tightly with a long rope, one end tied to a tall bridge, thus throwing himself towards the river and, whilst in mid air, the intricacies of the yo-yo became evidently clear and he felt awfully foolish, but only for a second.

He managed to survive what nearly proved a watery grave only to be later struck by lightening whilst disproving God and, in his smoldering state, managed to complete a short chapter on improbability. The chapter covered major mathematical questions of his day and answered the question, “what is the probability of getting lucky with Margaret Trudeau at the local pub,” which he concluded to be quite good and, were he not aflame, would have made it the topic on his next book, “You Bet Your Life On It.”

Aristesticles (ariz-testy-cleese), born 1252 from unknown parents and raised by a family of asthmatic dolphins just off the island of Crete where he treaded water for nearly fifty years. He died of exhaustion, on the island of Crete, 1302, after his long swim inland.

Aristesticles, a philosopher on whom much work has been retained, though seldom read, was best known for his discourse on slavery. A slave owner himself, he argued that masters are akin to the brain and slaves nothing more than bodies, which, lacking the brain, could not function. Slaves, without their masters, he argued, would wander aimlessly without purpose or direction, often wearing mismatching colors and sometimes only one sock. Although he conceded that wearing only one sock cannot, in and of itself, constitute bafflement, he made the case, nonetheless, that the sock was often worn on their heads. His ardent opponents argued that masters similarly could not operate without the slaves, for even the brain needs the capacity of the body. Masters were, thereby, slaves themselves. The slaves, of course, found this very amusing, often removing their socks from their respective heads and yelling, “now we’ll show them.” It was not long indeed before opponents to the opponents claimed that if there are slaves to slaves then there can be no masters and, necessarily, no-one can know what to do, and thus came to be born the first public office, which soon thereafter went on strike shouting slogans of distaste, like, “are we not men, or what?”, and, “now we’ll show them.”

Aristesticles, disturbed by the whole progression of events, had his brother-in-law shot. There was no connection between his brother-in-law and the turmoil of the time, he simply did not like him. Held on charges of murder Aristesticles proved to the courts that murder is not such a bad thing, as long as it was done in good taste and on a full stomach, to which the courts responded by taking a lunch recess and having him tarred and feathered in stylish flamingo pink.

Palleteri (Tony), Born 1785, Sicily, no known record of death.

This little known Italian thinker, said also to be a lover of poetry and often armed with his Longfellow at hand, is said to be the first to address the relation between time and space. He argued against the accepted belief that space contained time, stating, instead, that time contained space, in much the same way a cake pan contains its mixture. He may have gone too far when he suggested that God is a big oven wherein He bakes space on a platter of time, but not before using several truck-loads of yeast, which He was known to get at below market prices. Tony recanted soon after the first discovery of non-stick pans thus avoiding the wrath of the Holly Office of the Inquisition, who believed God to be the cook, and not the oven. He would later resurface in a failed attempt to peddle a time/space continuum and would again retreat, this time to open a small ice cream and scarf shop near the south coast, thereat coining the phrase, “location, location, location.”

Jonglee Ma (pronounced, Peter), born, Northern China, in a traditional small town where kin marriages are still arranged, died at age 67, leaving behind no recognizable children.

Little has been written about Jonglee for he apparently seldom left the house whereat he cared for his many children, some of whom were not joined at the hip. Some of his short works, however, have resurfaced, the most insightful of which were his treatises of Will vs. Destiny, and Dreams. He went to great lengths to prove that life is determined by Will, and not Destiny, so long as you are up for it. His work on Dreams was pioneering, as he pondered where reality ended and where dreams began. He claimed that dreams are reality and waking hours, dreams, until the day he was fired for sleeping on the job. He decided, characteristically enough, that his firing was not real and continued to show up for work for weeks on end, though he came to miss his paycheck. He was put to the test when he became stricken with an unyielding case of insomnia during which he claimed to be as well rested as he had ever been, right up until the time that certain train, with its mesmerizing bright eye, reminding him of his eldest son, first struck his goofy smile and, soon thereafter, the rest of him.

Jonglee left some unfinished work on “memory”, in which he proved that memory is a good thing…or something like that…


I must stop and beg your forgiveness, for unlike History, I have limits and I fear I have breached them. Perhaps She was right when she left these likes uncovered and exposed to the chill of never again seeing daylight. Perhaps She conferred with Her golden child Darwin in Her ultimate decision to not let her granite back be scarred by those who are likely to misspell their own names. Perhaps She simply forgot them, though, in retrospect, I find that unlikely. So, goodbye Jonglee Ma, may you take comfort in that final warm embrace of your overzealous one eyed child, and goodbye Pelleteri, may you sleep evermore in the warm solace of that mounting soft woolen inventory which your bikini clad, ice-cream eating patrons found unnecessary for their own beach bound comfort. And, let’s not forget you, Aristesticles, may that layer of long pink feathers disguise you evermore and continue to be cause for your maddened brother-in-law to fail to identify you in his ardent attempt to shorten your afterlife. Oh History, ageless as you are, you have shown some signs of senility in your failed recognition of Scarponi, who spoke so highly of your Father and now tailors fine cut suits for your children, forgotten and revered alike, but not on Monday, Wednesday or Friday, whereupon his small shop closes as he attends your Father’s workshop on ‘How to Command the Saints You Need, and Other Important Celestial Pleas.’ And you, Cartarian, father of improbability, may you command the odds in your favor and may a better man take pen to paper and offer you that unlikely probability at once again raising your ashes from the celestial scarring you received that one fateful day. Ah, yes, and you, Gastropoles, do not lower your eyes in resignation, for unlike She, I have not forgotten you, and I too wish that She will come to her senses and at least add some additional links to that six foot chain, or perhaps convince that wench of a mother-in-law to stop her eternal rendition of ‘Singing in the Rain.’ Goodnight sweet children and may you take comfort in each others arms and shelter yourselves from the finger-rubbing mockery of Aristotle and especially Plato who is said to like the company of men, but not in the traditional way.


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