In Defense of Communal Philosophy…

When did philosophy stop being a communal endeavor? When did it cease to be primarily expressed within the simple beauty of a public conversation and discourse? When did it instead become the intellectual theorizations of the solitary subject and the vacuous thoughts of the isolated individual? I yearn for the philosophical pursued in the depths of dialogue. My thoughts seem to coalesce so clearly and in a far more articulate manner communing with another…This is the philosophy that I am most interested in doing…How do we get back to that? How do we create the spaces to do so? What would it look like?

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Letter to the Young…

 

 

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One day, this world will break you

and when it does

you will never be ready

you will never be mended

and you will cease to believe;

in life,

love,

faith,

family,

god,

in everything,

although you may never admit it.

You will spend the rest of your days either in denial of the abyss at your center,

wearing a smile like paint poured out upon a sepulchre,

or

you will knowingly fall deeper into the squalor of existence,

embracing the black malevolence of your being,

casting light upon the cosmic joke of human consciousness,

gnashing your teeth at each new passing day,

cursing the insistence of the future,

and hoping for the sweet oblivion of pure nothingness.

But,

either way

you will never be whole,

you will never be well,

never at peace,

never at rest,

never at ease.

Selah.

 

 

Shoegazer

I was going though some of my older photos and I came across this little nugget. I began to recognize a pattern throughout my photographic work. I take quite a number of photos of shoes, either mine or others, and or other objects on the ground. Generally speaking, it seems the implicit intent of my work is to cast the eye downward. This makes perfect sense from a psychoanalytic perspective, given my ongoing battle with clinical depression and my overall melancholic disposition. This is a testament to my temperament. My eyes are constantly averted. My vision sits low, head-down. My world¬†view¬†is quite literally bottom-up, my frame of reference beginning on the ground. In essence, then, my work is a glimpse of the world through the black bile eyes of the morose, the emotionally impaired, the damaged, the depressed, the unwell, the mentally unbalanced, the mind of melancolia, the sight of sadness…

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Beggar at the Gates

 

I dance with my despair
I kiss my suffering mouth to mouth
Lips wet with saliva and tears
sweat and strain

Do not let my stutter depart from me

I limp because I have wrestled
I have striven with “God” and men and have prevailed
Disjointed and crippled, I am whole

I am laughing sweetly with my anguish
Ever tasting this supple sorrow
I do not seek to numb the pain

I waltz with my sadness
never knowing who leads yet still we sway

I have made love to my wretchedness, never knowing who recedes yet here we lay

Shrouded in the darkness of a melancholy joy
May I rise, take up this bed and walk away
But, in my lameness may I remain