As I approach my 55th birthday this weekend, I really cannot tell if I am getting depressed or just bored in my situation. So much
I am never without a tarot pack wherever I go. I do not read them for others much anymore, but I take them out to just play with them and see what can be seen. When I need to clear my mind, I take out diverse decks to do a spread. I get more out of this than meditating or playing a distracting game. I find a creative way forward for my day or my life.
My dissertating, to be authentic queer philosophizing, must be a Wyrd insurrection against the Emperor—the Pater Familias, the Patriarchy, the Toxic Masculine. My experiences over the last two years with a few older colleagues in professional philosophy informs me of how very much the “problem” of toxic patriarchy permeates our culture. If “thoughtful” folx—as purportedly philosophers should be—are capable of gaslighting themselves about the innocence of their motives, how could it not be at least as rampant in society at large, if not even more so. And I certainly make no claims to not having adopted a good deal of this behavior that needs excision. Therefore, it is not only a structural system to rise up against in my surroundings, but a instructed component built-into my very self. How often does this noxious figure of heteronormativity follow us into every life decision? Almost always.
Here is Prometheus bound.
Late June after the solstice is the time when I lose sight of writing and reading. Usually there is a burst of both just after
The most intriguing nuances of experience cannot be wholly captured by words. Positive claims within consciousness-as-such can only apprehend so-much of our being-world as an