On Being

I have always been fascinated by philosophy, but seldom have the staying power to read an entire book. When coming face to face with Martin Heidegger's fundamental treatise "Being and Time" at the Barnes and Noble bookshop, I asked again the question "What does being mean?"  For Heidegger, the truth of being, its openness, is not our own production.  We find ourselves thrown in a historically conditioned environment in which the decision concerning the prevailing interpretation of the being of being is already made for us.  Yet, by asking the question of being, we can at least attempt to free ourselves from our historical conditioning. 

Next to the solitary bay of philosophy books were two rows of bookshelves on religion, mostly about Christianity.  Almost 20% of the floor space was given over to religion as a genre.  But curiously, a recent survey shows that the number of people in the USA who say they are unaffiliated with any particular faith today (16%) is more than double the number who say they were not affiliated with any particular religion as children. Among the younger generation, those aged 18-29, one in four say they are not currently affiliated with any particular religion.  Perhaps it is deliberate that the floor space allocated to each genre is not directly correlated to the reading habits of the consumers.

Weston was the next stop on the itinerary.  This is a charming small town, situated about 30 minutes north of Kansas, in Missouri.  The trip took us along I-435, MO10 and then JJ, deep into the country side.  The landscape was flat as a pancake, with fields stretching well into the horizon.  Weston's main thoroughfare, Main Street, is lined with antique shops and the odd eaterie.  Chief among its attractions is the wine tasting offered by two wineries, which I did not partake due to lack of time and my travelling companion being a teetotaller.

The Weston Cafe, festooned with brightly lit festive lights, offered good honest home made food.  The fries (not chips please, chips are crisps) were fab.  So was the roast pork bun; the pork was melt in the mouth.  The young girl who served us proudly explained that it is a family business and that the cafe will one day be her inheritance. 

In the warrens of an antique shop that sells all manners of trinkets, bric-a-brac.  They are Weston's answers to the flea market or car boot sales.

Some humour to attract attention.  The USP really.

The Poles are everywhere, if ever proof is needed.