No one reads Spinoza in my neighborhood. The elderly woman with her old dog hasn’t heard of the devaluation of sense perception as a means of acquiring knowledge. She’s never thought of a pure, emerald nest of dendrites zizzing the accidents in her head and it’s not that she’s old, or feminine, she’s not wrong headed, she just happens to trust what she sees.
I sit on an old wooden chair under the spruce tree. The eyes are not necessary for perfection of mind. And the woman who hasn’t read Spinoza walks by with carpet slippers on her feet. A thunderstorm is coming though it’s early morning.