Animal's House of Muse

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

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!

Lawn Chair Philosophy also represents through its own icon a reaction to an academic diaspora, of sorts, where the institutional structures intently occasioning authentic philosophical research are crumbling amidst our dwelling. Some philosophers are able to thrive in the barren deserts of the once lush academy while resisting devolutionary trends towards foul scavengers. However, myself and others are not yet properly familiar with the terrain enough to accomplish such a feat (and are admittedly wont to be pampered with more than mere dry air, besides). In response, we shall collect ourselves in a traveling tabernacle of our own making by situating our reflections in a chair that moves with us, lifting our own tent of mysteries, positioning our chairs in a circle, just and right, such that we may command of the human spirit philosophical unity for ourselves; us disparate, disjointed wretches in desperate need of catharsis.

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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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And that’s how One Lies in Bed

As days pass over into weeks, rest passes over into sloth. For how much longer must I heal? Well, until once again I’m real. Fake it ‘till you make it, hon. At such answers my conscience shudders. It wills movement and my body listens, as my opportune imagination, silently alert, disguises itself as progressive thoughts while its prey fleshes itself out in proportions of governance to governed mimicking perfection, itself. Who wouldn’t stalk such earnest? This wholesome task, juicy with fluid iron, fresh with green insight into self-overcoming shall get nowhere fast. A dream emerges from a thicket of overgrown promise, as if determined directly into the air alongside particulates and vapors by the lone fact of my feeling its presence. Every time a fool follows, a fool follows what it knows. Paralyzed I gaze agape at my ceiling – modal possibility constricting modes of lived givenness as a great snake hungry for the sake of hunger, alone; in keeping with the circular patterns of passivity I’ve kept in a heap atop this memory foam for a set time, ill-measured on account of a deep-seeded disregard for strict standards residing in some dark crevice of my psyche . . . I blame television.

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Shame on Me

I am not enveloped by nothingness
I am enveloped by self-destruction
Within this whole, I hide



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