the cusp
Here I am at the cusp,
brimming to a quivering fullness, swollen to excruciating desire, I am about to release this exquisite, burdensome excess in (hopefully) lofty words...
This is intellectual pain. This is maddening lust. (why is there yet no female-equivalent to 'blue balls'?) and I'll just have to wait, bite my lip, and hope for a powerful, memorable release.
(there always remains the possibility of unsatisfying academic intercourse, dis-course...dis-intercourse?)
But when it hurts this much, when there is so much speaking, so much singing going on in my head, so many unresolved chords (dis-chordinance) demand that I bring these sentences to the page, demand that I ex-press and exorcise. Can I commit to these sentences, give an offering to the senses communus in blood, sweat and tears....
...or, to drop a tired war-metaphor, the battle is raged in hours of isolation in the lonely confines of my head. Thoughts and impulses reigning free without a comrade to limit them, to police my meanderings...
...hours of silence but for the music as my vocal chords wax over from disuse and my relationships fade into a tense and anxious background of "everything else".....
...until I am so self-centered, narcissistic, solipsistic...
...'till I am hunched over, delirious, irritable, and haunted by the awkwardness of my own phrasing, the inadequacies of every thesaurus, the tedium of citation...
And tarrying with the concept. Resisting the concept with all my might, talking around the concept, through the concept, liquifying the concept,
and of course, aching for it,
painful in the lack of it.
Philosophy is incredibly erotic.
brimming to a quivering fullness, swollen to excruciating desire, I am about to release this exquisite, burdensome excess in (hopefully) lofty words...
This is intellectual pain. This is maddening lust. (why is there yet no female-equivalent to 'blue balls'?) and I'll just have to wait, bite my lip, and hope for a powerful, memorable release.
(there always remains the possibility of unsatisfying academic intercourse, dis-course...dis-intercourse?)
But when it hurts this much, when there is so much speaking, so much singing going on in my head, so many unresolved chords (dis-chordinance) demand that I bring these sentences to the page, demand that I ex-press and exorcise. Can I commit to these sentences, give an offering to the senses communus in blood, sweat and tears....
...or, to drop a tired war-metaphor, the battle is raged in hours of isolation in the lonely confines of my head. Thoughts and impulses reigning free without a comrade to limit them, to police my meanderings...
...hours of silence but for the music as my vocal chords wax over from disuse and my relationships fade into a tense and anxious background of "everything else".....
...until I am so self-centered, narcissistic, solipsistic...
...'till I am hunched over, delirious, irritable, and haunted by the awkwardness of my own phrasing, the inadequacies of every thesaurus, the tedium of citation...
And tarrying with the concept. Resisting the concept with all my might, talking around the concept, through the concept, liquifying the concept,
and of course, aching for it,
painful in the lack of it.
Philosophy is incredibly erotic.