A place to post freeform journal-type entries.

Bernard Versus Deleuze, An Internet Conversation

 

Deleuze Versus Bernard, A Conversation.

 

 

Bernard: I'm really tired tonight, but remind me to talk to you something about Riot Gamez

 

Deleuze: Hmm?

 

Remembering a friend fondly

Today on another drive at dawn to the Country University, fog lifting in the sunrise like phantom birds of prey, I heard a song that reminded of the most quietly, subtly insane person I've met to date.

Platinum and gold, banana leaves, saccharine fruits and asterisks will always call to my mind her small, lovely body; her dark, cocoabuttersoaked skin; her big Caribbean hair with copper highlights like the synthesized surrealisms in the songs she likes best, pops of color in her dense curls like the color and rhyme in her precious dreams.  In her junglescape dreams to be precise; jungles in the watercolor, acrylic and collage of her art are the jungles in our minds.

Ode to the Drunk Guys Outside the Window

Ode to the Drunk Guys Outside the Window

By Anonymous

 

Your incoherent yells and hey-ohs

Provide nightly shows of entertainment

For the girls on the third floor.

 

Collectively, you are the drunk guys outside the window,

And collectively, your band of characters

Cerebral Whispers

Cerebral Whispers by Dona Maria

 

Do not love me. Ghouls laugh

and call you lame.

You would not love

my flashing brain.

 

Don't! Do not! Mustn't!

Gullible pigeons, you are the cotton;

was it not clear?

 

Whom else do I hear

so often but you-

 

Freshman Prophet,

listen to your words.

 

"I ex-plod-ed my seminar's mind today,

and will again on Wednesday.

I'm the only smart one in the rooooom!

Prof loves me, everyone else annoys him.

Why? Oh, because I listen

and don't ask stupid questions."

 

Questions are not stupid!

You are not stupid!

You are just young

and too safe.

 

Sophomore Prophet,

 

"I write my papers in an hour,

3:52am Honest Statement of Purpose

I started my statement of purpose too sterile, a poor reflection of my personality. It was formulaic, written too concisely, and I could not present the true value of philosophy in such a way. There was a change in my heart. It is this statement of purpose which may make or break me, and, if it is to break me, then my philosophical pursuits may truly be best exhibited outside further classroom walls.
I took a break from the application process to listen to some music. I decided to play Beethoven’s 7th Symphony. For me, philosophy is only truly found in questions of Being, questions of Subjectivity and Truth, the Metaphysical and Aesthetic pursuits. These were the thoughts running through my head as I listened to Beethoven’s 7th.

I Want to Die...

 

 
I want to fall off the world as it nods
in approval
and to cascade
with its wet
locks.
 
I want to die in a peal of laughter-
a sea of calcium studded apertures
bouncing
at how simple
is truth.
 
I want to die in a fit of cognition
like a mortal
funneling nectar
on a Friday afternoon-
 
I want to die in crushing forgiveness
like a puppy
struggling
in an embrace of retarded truth
 
and as my brains dash out
both mice and men in a revelation of beauty
die too.

What I think about while at work

The balance of being both introvert and extrovert- the person who could exist, and had to exist, as both- was first found in the politician(insert footnote and explanation here). When the politician ultimately failed in existing as such to shallow behaviour(insert footnote and explanation here), the artist rose where the politican had once stood(insert footnote and explanation here). Now, as the artist is failing to the same shallow behaviour(insert fn), the philosopher and poet are needed more than ever, the dancer and musician are needed more than ever. A musician takes the stripped and embellishes it; a dancer takes the embellished and strips it.

 

Thoughts always interrupted by customers.

How to...

How to Make Me Cry

 

see a school of fish not my dignity

rebel against community as mechanism

show a fire

 

see as a pauper and pity me

assign me no significance

 

i will cry the tears of angels

then i will be fufilled

 

tell me what no one will hear

if truth, i will cry right there

if lies, i will cry later

in my bed, screaming

 

make victims of inconsiderate violence

hit me by chance

i will cry rebellion

 

choose and latch to a problem

learn it, know it, speak of it widely

i will cry for me and it

 

see me as a fish and love me as a friend

i will not cry then

 

 

 

 

 

a rainy afternoon

looking through old documents; three excerpts

I

Liquor breeds sad eyes.
They become transparent to the turmoil in the head.
The eye brows slant slighty upward and in.
A little red wraps around the oval. They look through you.
The stuttering, doesn't impede your understanding of their torture.
Sad eyes scream, piercing your heart.
Look away, look back, you can't decide if its fair,
to break down and cry yourself.
Would they understand? You can't help it.
The tears are not selfish, the drops are to heal.
To whisper silently love is here.
Let go of past, let go.
But beer breeds bitter thoughts,
and sometime a brute.
Liquor brews violence in a peaceful man.
Liquor sharpens nails on a gentle hand.
You can say its a different way,
but you see the hate building up,

destruction, decay.


diurnals

Day One:

Afternoon

I have a fear (irrational, I know) that my sadness will kill me. Despair will surround me, at the center of a circle of dark mass, it will contract upon me, and crushing my rib cage in, the sternum I love, so firm will crack in or out or both and my lungs pierced by shards will pop with a last breath, but no one will hear the pinching, nor see my head distort crackling like dough with air pockets throughout it. My precious skull, no one will hear it, for the density of my despair snuffs me out, quickly. Maybe if someone is near, they will hear faintly a noise, maybe a zip of wind, or a woody clank and think it a rock or branch. I clench my teeth, sitting on a bench on a day which is agreed to be beautiful. Tight, contracting, pulsing in a thick presence from my jaw to the posterior skill, the skull summit, brow, temple, and eyes. I catch myself and relax, only to tighten again at the next distraction.

 

Lessons Learned Holding A Small Hand

A series of poems that all arose from walks with my daughter.

by Dana Nolan

In light of the curious occurrences since the start of lucubrations.org, I have decided to compile the notable correspondences, indirect and direct, and my experience of them. To be clear, I will include posts by other users which are not distinctly directed toward me. I will note where this integration might be confusing. Best categorized as a history of lucubrations thought, I present this compilation.

A Meditation

Quiet your mind and listen.

Listen to the rain.

Listen to the trees.

Listen to the wind.
Listen to the resolute beat of your heart and its congruity with all life.

Listen to the life that is outside of yours yet beautifully entangled within it.

Listen to your spirit.

Hear it and know that you are home.

 

 

Cotton

Cotton Balls.
Swabbing up my sanity.
Fuzzing up my ears.
Your words are cotton,
laborious to pick,
under the hot sun of opinions.
Thick and dry,
fuzzy and white.
Your chatter is not comfort,
it is slavery
in auditory fields.

sitting

Infants and children sit on floors and grounds. They see no need for design, the earth invites them down.

Unless parents or nurses or teachers drag them up to eat, children prefer what's natural to their feet.

Adolescents retain this inclination fidgetting in their chair, unable to remember bright eyes amidst marks of good or fair.

Men are accostumed to a city of furniture, shelves of relics of events occurred.

I saw a man sittng on a rock,

a book firmly cradled in his hands,

raised above his bent elbows,

in compromise.

the trouble is choosing

where there is urgency, there should be no delay