There is a problem which all philosophers must face—that of possibility and necessity. “What problem,” you may ask, “I see no problem. Some things are possible, like what color shoes I wore today, and some things are necessary, like 2 plus 2 is four. What more do I need to know?” Ahh, there lies one problem: what do we know about possibility and necessity, because it seems that we know a lot about them. That is the epistemological problem. Another problem is the metaphysical one: what is the nature of possibility and necessity?
Every writer seems to have a ritual, even if they don’t have a strict one. Some professionals swear by theirs because they believe by having a ritual and sticking to it they have the ability to get into the writing flow better. (more…)
Writers need their tools and when they find ones that work they stick with them. Even to this day Woody Allen uses his typewriter to type his screenplays, and Hemingway always did his first draft in pencil. Sometimes objects you wouldn’t first imagine to be useful are also necessary for creative work to occur: Maya Angelou liked to have a deck of cards nearby, and Charles Dickens had to have his desk ornaments arranged before he wrote.
Almost like you and I came from down hard
On a soft tumbling desire.
No one knew where the Voice had originated, but it blared across every set of speakers for miles. The people called it a Radio and according to legend the Voice came from a person known as a Host who would sit at a desk enclosed behind glass partitions that reached to the ceiling. (more…)
When is it acceptable to be mentally ill? Throughout history people have had varying levels of acceptance and attitudes towards mental illness. During certain periods of history people were celebrated for having visions or talking with spirits. These hallucinations were interpreted as the mark of a genius or chosen one. Without their visions we may not have had great thinkers like Buddha or Shakespeare. But history has not always been so approving of hallucinations. There have been times when seeing things that were not there or talking to oneself was a sign of a witch or more recently a symptom of a mental illness, one which needs to be cured. (more…)
There were a lot of cats, five to be exact, sprawling themselves across the recently polished wooden floor of the spacious house. I sat among fifteen other animated attendees, seven people on each side of the long linen covered table, and one sitting at the head. The majority of the people were unrecognizable, probably because I had never seen them, or at least, never paid any attention to them previously. (more…)
It became unreal to me after realizing what it is to you.
In the short story The Black Monk Chekhov writes about death, faith, and individuality. Andrey Vasil’ich Kovrin, the main character of the short story died in a peculiar way. He was visited by a fabricated phantom, started hemorrhaging, and then fell face first into a puddle of his own blood. I took something surprising from the short story which changed my perception on living and dying. (more…)
Smooth jazz played in the background. Sarah, wine glass in hand, easily moved to the music. Regan, tapping his foot to the beat, sat on his shiny leather coach. Windows made up the far left wall, their curtains were open and allowed the light to illuminate Regan’s minimalist furnishings.
Consider Odysseus, Homer’s Archean hero of the Odyssey. He was brave, fearless, headstrong, and courageous. Leaving his beloved Ithaca for war and peace, and abandoning what truly made him happy: his home, wife, and son. Sailing alongside Odysseus we ask ourselves if he will ever return to Ithaca. If only Odysseus had realized happiness was more than pursing this journey. We want to yell out at him, “Don’t you realize? true happiness can only be defined within yourself.” (more…)
It was the 19th of February and I had just arrived at the Merced Multicultural Arts Center, the location of a Trump Resistance. Expecting a room full of hateful protesters all banding together to cause a upheaval in Washington I was surprised at the reality of local protest. (more…)
When you travel far far away and you leave behind everything to build a new home, a new habitat, even after many years a flickering of summer sun on the edge of an oak leaf, a picture of an old friend sitting on a park bench, or even inevitable wanderings of your delirious mind brings before your eyes the images of the past with a lucidity so striking that your heart feels entrapped tightly in your chest. (more…)