Little Pest A smell haunted the house after our return from a summer trip It took days to locate the source— a body curled up in a humane trap accidentally left open I carried the mouse (already home to writhing others) at arm’s length through the backdoor then dropped it quickly in a shallow hole, brushed the loose earth over I placed on the grave a sprig of catnip and a sprig of horehound intended to provide an aromatic ferrying from uncertainty to uncertainty A prayer, a guilt The heat of my neglect crawling through me Little pest, what do you make of my humanity?
"May she find herself. May she lose herself." Typed words found on a small piece of paper, like a Chinese fortune in a folded-in-on itself wafer cookie, with a piece of short red embroidery thread slide through a needle hole in the paper at the end of the sentence. I have carried this around for many years. As it comes to mind, after I read your substack post, I realize I have no idea where it is anymore. Yet, it is still vivid in my mind. I have not found it, but it is not lost.
A gift recieved many years ago from my artist-scholar friend whose scholarship takes the form of life writing, Nané Jordan. She has named herself a philosopher-midwife.
Who/what/when/how and sometimes why is the philosopher being midwifed into being/non-being, beyond and sometimes behind being in your dissertation journey?
Your writing elicits philosophic thought processes that I do not know are present until they appear typed on the screen. Is that an impossible task offered for a reader/viewer/wit(h)nesser of an artist-scholar writing her way through a hedge philosophy dissertation?
"May she find herself. May she lose herself." Typed words found on a small piece of paper, like a Chinese fortune in a folded-in-on itself wafer cookie, with a piece of short red embroidery thread slide through a needle hole in the paper at the end of the sentence. I have carried this around for many years. As it comes to mind, after I read your substack post, I realize I have no idea where it is anymore. Yet, it is still vivid in my mind. I have not found it, but it is not lost.
A gift recieved many years ago from my artist-scholar friend whose scholarship takes the form of life writing, Nané Jordan. She has named herself a philosopher-midwife.
Who/what/when/how and sometimes why is the philosopher being midwifed into being/non-being, beyond and sometimes behind being in your dissertation journey?
Your writing elicits philosophic thought processes that I do not know are present until they appear typed on the screen. Is that an impossible task offered for a reader/viewer/wit(h)nesser of an artist-scholar writing her way through a hedge philosophy dissertation?