Animal's House of Muse

Vibes to Feed the Hasty Soul with the States of All that Matters

Category: Uncategorized

Of Function and Science

How do you get your mind over the conditions which ground it,
Found it,
Put it to rest;
Fixed and immutable?
You lie to your heart about what’s standing right in front of you
And hope to god no one sees
Your eyes, full of doubt
Heaven forbid you look in a mirror . . .

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Who Knew Plato was a Feminist?!

Through the mouths of idiots, Plato proselytizes about his release from an unenlightened cave of personal prejudice and bad opinion. He chooses the weakest male of any given philosophy 101 litter, creeping into their psyche as if Satan whispering into the mind’s ear: “You shall truly know as others will never understand. Even those around you, sitting in the very same philosophy class, cannot truly hear as you, favored one, the holy word of the master. Look at them, taking notes like the plebs they are! The fate of humanity rests solely on your shoulders. Eat of the fruits of my labor. Release these fools from their prisons. Show them what it means to really think, else they shall never find truth! You shall be the way and the light, itself – just as your mother prophesied!” And without deviation, every single time, he seizes control of his victim; who dashes to the first woman they can find in order to begin their life long mission as the epitome of sage-hood. And here is where Plato’s genius truly emerges: the idiot becomes for her an embodied example of life within the cave, and she thinks to herself and for herself, “Let me not be like this idiot and assume without even thinking to stop and ask that everyone around me is trapped in an unenlightened cave of their own, or society’s making.” She then begins her life long, inward journey of philosophical self-reflection in the proper manner of examining her assumptions so as to not look-a-fool; so as to condition wisdom in a world known by others (duh).

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You Down with LCP?

Yeah, you know me! Sup, readership? So I’m starting a non-profit called the Lawn Chair Philosophy Foundation which provides philosophical resources to those who would otherwise have little access to such material. It’s a pretty broad notion, and more about the specifics can be found here :

This foundation brings to life the spirit of Lawn Chair Philosophy through an outreach program which donates philosophical works to homeless shelters, half-way houses, impoverished schools, etc.; and which develops courses to guide readers through a rigorous program that is both fun and efficient. But what is the spirit of Lawn Chair Philosophy? It would make little sense to bog the foundation’s website down with heavy, impenetrable treatises, so I am creating space in this post to develop the idea of Lawn Chair Philosophy while my studies and practice evolve. Officially speaking, I have thus far the following:

Lawn Chair Philosophy is a method of inquiry, as well as a theory of general ontological emergence, based upon a Nietzschean radicalization of Edmund Husserl’s phenomenological spirit and inner-time consciousness; and which focuses on the constitutive interrelations between pure and experiential ratios. Its expression is rhythmic in nature, and it has for its directed object the rhythmic emergence of meaningful subjective experience.

Obviously, there is yet much, much, much upon which to expound – so stay tuned and keep checking back for more information!

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Philo Mouths Off in Gym Class

Points aren’t born –
They’re made
Composed of grit, iron, and sweat
And mud
And illusory determinants
What’s the point
In this list of claims?
The point
Lies in the index fangle
Dangle wangle
Diddly doo
The truth for me
Is the truth for you
Rise from the start
From no apparent reason
No matter the season
The spirit embodied
Is a truth much obliged
Because the cause is right
Before your eyes!
I see!
I see!!
I see!!!
Betch, please.

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She Always was Swept Away, Steppin’ in that Same Damn River . . .

In the ash which kept its form
She wept plump droplets of vision
The remains of which were lost
In the dust of constant decay
None heard her cries
Yet we all saw
We all knew
For our hearts were moved in unison
We sank as she fell from her own eyes
And we rose when her patience ran thin
And we felt from afar what we could not touch:
A purpose lost without a scene.
There was nothing anyone could do
Nothing anyone could say
For how do you guide one who never listens?
Alas, no promise holds
As well as the ash which kept its form
And she returned to it time after time
’til time became without suspension

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You’ll have to Pardon Me, I’m having a Nietzsche Moment

i believe the greatest weight we have as human beings is an eternal recurrence; a constant responsibility to creatively reconcile what returns to us each moment: difference. a natural striving for harmony – a striving for necessary measure, stable and unchanging – so that we may meaningfully keep time with our wild and, at times, hostile environs, however, might would lead a one, isolated individual who is only capable of seeing the world, and themselves within it, from a fixed perspective, to erroneously believe that a particular moment (however broadly defined) comes back again and again, with no variation – why? why me? to what end? the original weight of responsibility is then dispensed with in order to undertake an even heavier, pernicious and unnecessary weight – one which leads to helpless nihilism; a void wherein an individual’s creativity is trapped, hiding in the same moment and unable to make sense for itself. agency is denied and negated, here. for the world as it is given, under the particular solipsism in mind, is experientially given as it is, as it were, without question. alongside this atrophy of will, the logical faculty of intellect, too, suffers and rots. for without other moments, how would one be able to delineate the perceived eternally recurring moment as something which returns, distinct from that which doesn’t return? i believe, though, that these ills can be overcome if one shares one’s self-concocted “stable” method and measure with another. when one becomes two (or more) y’all may come to a common time-keep through such relations; a polyrhythmic timing which has the strength to carry the weight of reconciling difference, so that the original burden is slightly lifted. the edge thusly alleviated, though not escaped, we’re free to create higher meaning beyond that which just barely gets us by until death. through love and empathy [both emotional empathy and “rational” empathy (i.e., pure harmony/ratio)] we come to better define what distinguishes one moment from others; what distinguishes our life-moments from others’; and we create for ourselves a home, a community of different individuals which expresses and re-presents our original confusion and overcoming within a flux of varied worldly-experience. dear music, these pills have me stuck in bed, alone and writing things that make no sense. please bring me back to strength so that i can return to a world where my perspective may partake of authentic measure. i want to create something of substance. i want to weigh my life account on the scales of common ratios, so that the burden of givenness doesn’t become one-sided and top heavy (before it squishes my common sense for “good”). fuel me so that i may overcome physical illness, as well as the spiritual ills which egg pain on and on, ad infinitum; so i may become one example among many of the unifying force which occasions from above, and beneath humanity in its fullest sense; the perspectival unit of measure to which we may all refer, and through which we may all participate in creating all sorts value and sense. fuel me so that i may reach, yet again, other fully autonomous units who are willing and able to exchange burdens with me through metaphor and song. i’m almost there. just one more push.

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I’d Always Thought of Myself as a Red Twizzler

The gesture was romantic
The day that I wasted away
Piece by piece
Bit by bit
I stripped clean my spirit
Of my body
Until all that remained
Was the black licorice
At the core of my being
Oh the disappointment!
The very idea!
The horror.
What monster presents such a present for the world?!
The kind that won’t be eaten by it, jeeze!




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Studies have Shown

Opossums offer an alternative approach to self-preservation beyond the fight/flight polemic when faced with their own demise. In my efforts to better navigate through a world most hostile, I recently implemented their method of playing-dead whenever faced with my own demise. Thus far the results have been favorable. I hope to naturalize this response so that it becomes instinct; and without thinking stop my thoughts in their tracks before they materialize out of my mouth.








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Set First a Dream before Your Vision

Behind the lines written for only our eyes to read
Lies hidden a door with infinite parallels
Each frame opening in a different direction
Making it hard to keep track of its order of operations
Let’s not get lost while decoding
For once all containment is breached
Retracing locks and footsteps
Is only made possible by mirrors of two
The prize at both ends: our original sin
For which atonement never comes easy
Both images real
Neither to be touched
Else their outlined path shall be shattered
And we’ll be eternally stuck
In a pattern of shame and wanting
Better to move slowly
If we are to win
So dry your eyes and take my hand
I’ve breadcrumbs in my pocket
Just in case

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Knock, Knock, Knockin’ on Heaven’s Doo – . . . On Lady Wisdom’s Last Damn Nerve, Is What

Said Philo unto Sophia, “Gurrrrrlll!! You lookin’ so fierce, today!! Mmmhhmm – you gotta tell me your secret!!”

“Well,” she replied, “I have a new creation.”

. . .

First Freedom rang, and then it ditched my door;
Scurrying behind my neighbor’s hedges,
Watching, cackling, practically unseen,
Ate up with glee for the show it occasioned
But as I bypassed its bag of gifts set ablaze,
Boastfully dumped on my virgin welcome mat,
And headed without searching
Straight towards its pervious refuge,
It disbanded; scattering in all directions,
Bestowing trails of fresh gifts, a’plenty,
Forsaking its weakest member, left limp on the lawn
The soiled, spoiled man-let squealed for sweet mercy,
Fearing for its life as it knew not what to expect
“So much for the courage of a Boundless Will,
Conquering All in its sight – you’re coming with me.”
And since then, my house has never been cleaner;
My meals never so tasty;
My Being never so privileged, as it is here in the Now

. . .

“Bless its little heart.”

Thus replied Philo to Sophia, raising up a toast with his glass of sangria, “Oh yaaasss, betch, yaaasss!! Werk it, honey!!” *snap* *snap* *snap*

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