치킨 철학자 뉴욕에 가다

이번 착륙은 내 이름으로 하자

Outside the airplane window, clouds stretched endlessly—white lumps of meaninglessness. And there I sat, a single peanut trapped inside a massive metal tube.

I told myself the destination was “New York,” but in truth, it was a search for “the illusion that I was still a useful existence.” That thought pulled back a line I had oncequoted in my book The Use of Uselessness.

It was Zhuangzi’s words: “A mountain is only a mountain because it has useless trees. They are not cut for timber, and thus they live long.”

Back then, I had cherished that saying, telling my students: “You’re allowed to live like auseless tree. That, in itself, is reason enough to exist.”

But the day my chicken shop went under, I wanted to tear Zhuangzi to pieces. “So, it’s because you were useless that you failed,” a voice rang inside me. Uselessness looksnoble, but it never gets listed on a delivery app.

A large Western man was seated next to me. As I sat down, he smiled.

“Hi.”

I reflexivelyanswered, “Hi… chicken?”

I didn’t know why that word slipped out.

Maybe I wasalready anticipating the inevitable “Chicken or beef?” of airline meals.

He gave a puzzled smile, and I hurriedly changed course.

“I… I like New York.” “Metoo,” he replied. Thankfully, the conversation ended there.

When the meal came, the flight attendant asked,

“Chicken or beef?”

I answered without aflicker of hesitation. “Chicken. I’m… philosopher.”

The attendant laughed, and the man beside me tilted his head once more. As I bit into the drumstick, another passage surfaced—Bertrand Russell, In Praise ofIdleness:

“Many of man’s greatest achievements have come from useless speculationwith no purpose.”

I used to chuckle while reading that aloud in class. Now I couldn’t laugh.

My speculations couldn’t even cover my credit card bill. My existence had faded to something like, “That guy who used to dabble in philosophy.”

The plane climbed higher. Clouds pressed close against the window.

Had they alwaysbeen that beautiful?

“Useless. But beautiful because they are useless.”

I repeated to myself the line I hadforgotten:

“You’ve become useless. But maybe that isn’t such a bad thing.”

The clouds still drifted on, and I drifted slower than the clouds. But I was drifting

too, nonetheless.

While my seatmate went to the restroom before landing, a young white woman swapped into his seat, probably trading places with her friend.

She turned and asked, “Are yougoing to New York for business or pleasure?”

I hesitated, then answered, “For existence.”

She smiled and put on her earphones.

The landing announcement came on. I looked out the window at the city lights growing clearer by the minute. They flickered like an old film reel.

Somewhere, a trumpet began to play — New York, New York.

In that rhythm, people laughed, fought, and loved.

Life was an improvisation, and existence was always off-beat. Still, the music never stopped.

Yet beneath the dazzling lights, another shadow lingered.

I remembered Taxi Driver — Travis, racing through the streets of New York, trying to save the world, his eyes filled with solitude and the desire for redemption.

Somewhere inside me, that gaze was reflected.

“New York,” I murmured, “might be my grave—or the womb of my rebirth.”

The plane slowly descended toward the runway. The city, emerging from the clouds, was calling my name.

I picked up a peanut, looked out the window, and whispered to myself,

“This time, let me land in my own name.”