What would Descartes have thought?

You may have read, and enjoyed, last week’s post about going high to First Year English. This week, one of our writers went to First Year English on a different kind of high: pill form. Less smoke, and legal. Bwog would like to note that the writer has a Xanax prescription, and took the medicine as directed for test anxiety.

It’s two hours before my astronomy exam, and in anxious anticipation/thoughtful preparation, I pop a Xan. I figure this will give me the perfect mixture of anxiety and tranquility to be able calculate the distances to stars, but, coincidentally, the pill’s peak mellowing effects will happen in First Year English, my class right before Astronomy.

I walk out of the fourth floor Barnard Hall bathroom and into my English class, humming along to Mitski’s “I Don’t Smoke” (that’s right, readers—smoking is bad!). I’m hyped to discuss Descartes’ Discourses and Meditations, having already read the text for my philosophy course last semester.

Class starts with an exploration of the reasons why people procrastinate, and why Descartes specifically procrastinated on writing his “Meditations.” I lose track of the conversation after my neighbor references Homer one too many times, and start thinking about how much I procrastinated studying for astronomy…yeah, I’m pretty fucked, even with the Xanax to help me stay calm. The only reason I’m taking astronomy, anyway, is to fulfill the Nine Ways of Knowing. Same reason I’m taking First Year English, actually, come to think of it…

Then our discussion moves back to philosophy. Yes! This is MY subject, I think, remembering fondly my A+ average last semester. Using Descartes’ words as a guide, we start to question the validity of sense experience, the existence of God, and the value of truth versus happiness.

I can’t wait to tweet about this after class, I think. What is real? Is happiness more important than knowledge? What is knowledge? Delving back into my own thoughts (my other neighbor keeps mispronouncing the names of various French philosophers, and I really can’t deal), I start to question the existence of the classroom I’m in. I finger the cotton fabric of my Forever 21 t-shirt, twirl my highlighted hair, and cough a few times. Is any of it real?

My peers and my professor start to fade away–metaphorically, that is. Does it really matter whether or not any of it’s real? I think, therefore I am. Cogito, ergo sum. That’s all I need to know. I feel like I’ve really embodied Descartes’ state of mind: I touch his bit of wax, feel his silk dressing gown, watch the men in the square outside his window. Yep. I get it.
As my world—present, past, and future—crumbles apart, I’m overcome by a sense of utter peace. Time is a myth. Life is a road.

The class discussion becomes more and more abstract, but my inner thoughts seem to be getting more and more concrete.
I have two distinct epiphanies: 1) I should read some Nietzche; I think I would like him, and 2) Why do some Megans spell their name “Meghan?”

Suddenly, class is over, and I remember that I have to pretend like reality is real. I zip up my pencil case and slip on my sunglasses—(or do I? Maybe everything is a dream)—then prepare to walk across Broadway and head to Pupin for my exam about stars. Should I walk against the light? Will I be hit by a car if I do? What is “being hit by a car?” Is anything real? Will I die?

I shake my head at myself. Pfff. The Xanax is starting to wear off, and the more I question the trustworthiness of my senses, the more certain I am that the world is real.

But I’m excited to read some Nietzche later, and maybe even take another Xanax.

Photo via Bwog writer