The Ninth Cardinal Sin - On Ontology, Part I

To wear high heels on cobble stone. It’s a reckless kind of vanity. It’s an adventurous self-sacrifice for the sake of artsy fashion, a pseudo-athletic psychedelic physical challenge. It’s a risk. A lot could happen while wearing high heels on cobble stone. Like, the heel dicks could get stuck in the street cracks. Like, you’re so damn sexy and also tall enough to get a quick dick stuck in your narrow crack in the small side ally. 

It’s a fact, that hips just don’t swing the same on flats. Calves are less dramatic. The entire leg stamina and psoas belt activate differently on high heels while dancing, while muscles subtly pull up a tight dress around the quads – how high will it go? 

High on the ninth sin. It’s why he wore heels centuries ago, in France, “The Sun King”, because it made his short ass feel tall. Back then, heels were a man-thing, back when parties were particularly dirty, back in the villa of Versailles, the court of King Louis the Fourteenth (1638-1715). What a sin!

* * * * *

In Zofingen, an ancient Swiss town, the schoolyear ends with a bang.

Zofingen could be considered part of Alemannic culture, Alemannisch in German, which is basically Germanic though more specific to a particular geographical region in central alpine Europe, characterized by mountainous and forested landscapes with hills, rivers and valleys; characterized in Switzerland linguistically by a variety of German-ish dialects called Mundart (literally, “way of the mouth”). This specific Alemannic culture roughly includes: parts of southern Germany like the Black Forest and an area surrounding the Bodensee (literally, “ground [Boden] lake [See]”; Lake Constance in English); the now German part of Switzerland, which as a whole is a four-lingual nation including French-speaking, Italian and Reto-Roman regions. Alemania also covers the now eastern French region known as Elsass; as well as parts of what is now francophone Switzerland. Hundreds of years ago, the French moved into and through Alemannic regions with plunderous, warring troops burning villages and towns to the ground. I was not aware of my Alemannic heritage on my father’s side, until I found a book in the recycling center, where an old bookshelf stands, for books people don’t want anymore that others might, a Büchertauschgestell, from the words “books [Bücher] + exchange [Tausch] + rack [Gestell]”. A book-exchange-rack, which ha shelves for adult (erwachsen) as well as “kids and teenie” literature.

Alemannische Sagen – Heimelige und unheimliche Geschichten aus Baden, Vorarlberg, der Schweiz und dem Elsass. Herausgegeben von Ulf Diedeichs und Christa Hinze. 1984. Eugen Diederichs Verlag GmbH & Co. KG, Köln. (Alemannic sagas – homey and spooky stories from different regions).

I know I’m Alemannic on my father’s Swiss side, because of how my grandpa behaved, his storytelling, which is described as cultural tradition in the book. I know because of the characteristically Alemannic artful ovens in the old apartment house my parents owned for decades. Also because of the Swiss-German language I grew up speaking. Sadly, my grandpa was a drinker with an anger problem who became violent with my grandma. The book is full of Alemannic drinking stories. But it also describes a culture which valued the father, de Ätti, as the storyteller who everyone would gather around in the living-room to listen to, the one to pass on knowledge and wisdom. It was my grandpa’s habit to sit in his armchair in the living-room in an almost yogic position, shoes off and legs folded up and in, to smoke his pipe and tell stories. God knows I tried to listen, but I can’t recall many specifics, though he repeated himself a lot. He’d talk about his disdain for religion because of the church’s hypocrisy in having fought wars and how he’d confront the priest about it when questioned as to why he didn’t go to mass on Sundays. He was a regular at the local bar instead. One time while driving drunk, he killed a man, but he never talked about that. So, Grossätti ([graws-atee], grandfather) was a wonderfully authentic and complex patriarch with an honest heart whom I loved very much. But I also couldn’t completely get over his misbehavior towards my Grossi ([graws-ee] grandmother, literally “the female grand one”) in particular. I did witness and experience his stubborn rage, though not the physical violence, but the unforgiving bellows. However, I still loved him. And Grossi never divorced him, they were married for over fifty years.

* * * * *

The Swiss academic year that begins in mid-August and cuts into July, is concluded in Zofingen by the entire community with a series of ritual traditions, which represent the local epitome of the year. While the summer festivities occur only a couple of weeks after the summer solstice, at the height of summer when the days have just begun their journey towards the long and cold winter darkness, other community rituals, like the whole X-mas who-ha, take their course around the winter solstice itself, around the shortest day and darkest night on this corner of a crazy planet wobbling around a perceptible galaxy in an immeasurable universe. What’s in a day? Hey, what’s in a night?

Anyway, the Zofinger community, who has been described as cocky, celebrates the summer with a Thursday night Zapfenstreich and the Kinderfest on Friday. The latter is initiated by a morning school march curving through town to the main church, where all the children accompanied by their teachers sing. Family, friends and onlookers stand all around the streets and plazas to witness this multigenerational spectacle. Hung-over fathers and uncles struggle to keep it together, while mothers look after the young. Poker-faces try to hide the disappointment with the drunk of their procreation. The festivities end with a lit-up march from the hill at dusk, when songs send everyone off into the five weeks of summer vacation.  

These ceremonies are epitomes that express an ideal of human communion quite well. Particularly the Kinderfest is a statement of human ontology - which will be discussed in forth-coming essay The Ninth Cardinal Virtue – On Ontology, Part II.

For,

What does it mean to be human?
To be human means to be in community.

* * * * *

The Zapfenstreich is a collective party night for all generations at all stages in life.

This year, 2026, it happened onThursady, July 2^nd.  The Zapfenstreich is a mass event that begins in the early evening. Families show up complete. Bro-groups roam the premises. Some men break off with their friends to drink and party, or whatever bro-groups like to do.

The center town becomes packed with population as surrounding villages flood into the celebratory city. All restaurants and bars are open, all plazas decorated, stages are set up everywhere and local musicians and artists of all ages entertain. Food trucks and beer wagons abound. Throughout the night, different groups leave at different hours. Dinner time is for the whole family. The streets are packed with lines and lines of folk - humans socializing, people-gazing, band-watching, walking around, waiting for food, or talking and sitting and eating and drinking together.

Judgy gawks and curious stares appear on faces worn by small-town minds that venture out into the world of human kin. The streets are full of sin. The grown-up parties start early because there’s room for everyone to find a place that suits them. But by the time midnight has passed only the most enduring remain. Largely tween to middle-aged collections of crowds remain, that surround the bars-last-standing, the DJ stages and city stairs. The deep of the night belongs to the single pickers, art-addicts and die-hard socialites – a lot of them “introverts”.

Zapfenstreich is composed of the German words “Zapfen”, which means cone, spigot, tap, stud and such things; AND “Streich”, which can mean prank, trick, stroke, escapade, devilry, sweep and practical joke. Basically, there is a lot of drinking involved at a party like that; and other mischief, like eating for pleasure, making music, dancing, performing and indulging in art – the art of small-talk, pick-up, shut-up, deep-talk, the art of showing up and showing off, the art of being curious about each other and the art of turning judgment on and off. So, at a tap trick party, who’s stroking what cone? 

Fresh On Tap

As midnight strikes
all hands are on deck:
a cone is stroked
and spigots cock
and hands tap frock
and fingers on tenon lock.
Yikes,
as the temperature spikes
because the peg didn’t joke
but left stripes
along the trunnion
and a slap of white foam
on your neck
when the news broke.

* * * * * 

And so it was, that after many years… I don’t know how many… from before I had kids … over a decade and a half ago! After a long time again, I wore a tight black cocktail dress to a party. A grand hot summer fest in the middle of town, no less. And there is no way in hell I would wear flats with tight black cocktail dress! What a mess! Maybe when I’m seventy? Maybe not even then. Anyway, I didn’t care that I’d be walking and dancing on cobble stone all night. I decided to ride or die on those black high-heel sandals. Of course, it killed my feet. But so what?!

In a profoundly patriarchal Alem …. Damn, my children just woke up and my daughters robbed me of my thought. It’s hard to be a philosopher when you’re a working mother, wife and responsible member of society. It’s taken me over four months to pick up this ontological piece again. And it’s going to have to wait again. How long? Who knows? So much has happened and is happening and is about to happen. Moving again. Have we found our new (more) permanent home? Winter will tell if the old Harley-riding military media master is our new Wilhem Tell.

In a profoundly patriarchal cobble-stoned pond of traditions present and past, indeed, what is a foolish high-heeled woman philosopher’s ontological creed? What says She about the art to be?

 (to be continued)