Membranous, The Auditory Pincer

The organelles parallel surround the sound devoured…

Membranous And Vibratory

Auditory Revelations, Anti-Mastications

I’m exposed again. Nude to the moral requests of others. I need to be accepted, especially by those who love me. Once I give up knowing they love me, I give up on all. But this time I feel valiant, giving one on behalf of mental instability, driven to lust by inactivity and creative embolism. It swells inside without enough force to eject its lustrous levity. I want to laugh at the simplicity of the request, and perhaps it does start by changing my attitude to defenseless rather than helpless. I shiver too, but no one’s petting my soft fur.

I’m trying to be utterly adult and mature about my nervous plight. I hear voices of the transformed and I fight. It’s asymptotic but I see the curve ahead. It doesn’t feel like the transition to parent, but from intimacy to generative. I’m in chaos, voided from quotidian contributions to society. I feel righteous about wei wu wei but others are less impressed and I’ve resorted to tendencies and repetitive lapses of progress. In the effort of balance, I defend the effectuation of all experience. Or so I thought I did at the age of 31.

In a desperate plea to remain vigorously active, I pay to make connections. We all pay for services contributing to our survival, sequential needs whose demand must be met for balance. I’ve never believed in headstrong, unidimensional action or thought. It may achieve an ultimate goal but one has to avoid the shortsightedness of end results. The level isn’t entirely relative to the goal and sometimes I need distance.

Sure, I’m not thinking about you when instinct appeases because I’m fully-attending to the primal energy attracting me. Much is regurgitated in wasteful amounts. What’s left is a unique ingestion of hormone. The connotation of ‘whore’ with whormone is decidedly so but not to this boy. There expels an aromatic allegiance of olfactory-aided, neurochemical compounds moved to elevate common pleasures. A fool of one-way transmissions is more than masturbation. It’s always dead-end mastication.

When I resort to vision, I lose my way. When I listen, I’m guided to age. The hope, faith and belief I redacted from my mind as a younger man returns when I hear. The depth of who I am reflects through canals into a ganglion of consistency. As manifold as the cycles are, the outcome of vibrating strings and displaced membranous compose grandiose revelries of acceptance. There’s no worry of image, for that’s desultory to sound and love, an easily ambient array.

There’s a place for the deepest, toughest, heaviest pang of sadness in my chest. It’s a slow tighten, a concave depression asking for tears but facing a perverse reality. We’re really not good people. We can carry the delight only so far before accepting what we are. Beasts, lunatics, aliens, ghosts, rats, gods and assholes. All those fantastical creatures designed to whet the lonely unadaptability of our brains. Having a panoptic view of the preternatural unions fortified in advanced intelligence and action, the argument is necessary.

In salvation from suffocation, the visions of master crafters flit away. I carry the body type with me. The 4D appendages reach through tar pits awaiting a hand to pull them out. They stretch the flexible to an outer-morphology theorized while sniffing star stuff. I can see the fantasy run by, a large rolling sign held upright by the pincers of a mouthed-handed anthropod. It’s usually blank in my head. Only words sans my dreams.

I dream of distant lands. A point for this foot, and another for the other. It’s as descriptively vast as I extend the privilege of perceiving. The geological map of earth is points and paths, connected aerially to mass, visual absorbers illuminated by infinite hues. I’ve been the stagnant point for the last year.

“Don’t drag me down, I’m not falling down.”

Whoa, it’s easy to return to the inspiration. I suck in the very substance of my ears! Oh, what they hear!

Don’t call me pendular and gravitational, call me membranous and vibratory.

An interface for the rhythmic revelatory.

Death Of Life-Wandering

A Theory On The Social In-Between

There must be some sort of cosmic consciousness tapping into me over the last three days. It began a few nights ago when I was dog walking. I used to walk my two scoundrels every night through a large, dark park where I could clearly see the stars if it wasn’t a cloudy night. I hadn’t done this in several months but decided it was a nice moment to begin again. Taking our usual path around a small marsh, it was fairly quiet except for the group in the distance playing soccer tennis, but their excitement was saved for good and terrible points. After a few moments of silence, the stars came out to me. I began to talk to them, talk about them and conjured conversations old civilizations might have had about what lies in the direction of Leo, Libra or Aquarius. I was amazed to think about how much knowledge has been lost to this point and how many people never look at the stars, can’t see them and couldn’t find a constellation if that was all that kept them from death or a life wandering. I felt a bit ashamed but something was listening to me which made the brief self-discovery relieving.

Were you listening? Not to bring up another tale of defecation but while I was going at it, relieving some tension, I opened up a “National Geographic”. I have three different issues in my bathroom, all of which have been there for months now. I don’t buy magazines, as these three were sent to me, so I scour each one over, finding something I hadn’t paid attention to before. This time it was a short story and pictorial on whooper swans. Angels of winter is what an author wrote about these large, pure avians. But that was something new. I eventually reached an article I’d browsed before about the Milky Way and just happened to stop there to observe the vast, telescopic depictions of the massive, materialistic, black-holed galaxy we so elegantly swirl around. There’s talk of other suns forming, yet the planets circling them aren’t developed into planets like ours.

From there, I traveled to a personal philosophy. We’re a matter of chance, a single burst of life out of a chaotic system with complex patterns infinitesimally difficult to understand. But, we’re the only matter of chance to have come around the revolution as human – to our knowledge – or at least to have been surrounded by the most suitable conditions for our nature of living. Though I’ve been of the pluralist school for several years now, resorting to the true psychological school of any and all possibility, the sincere plausibility of both and many overwhelmed my shitty scene. We’re both free and controlled, random and determined, rational and empirical, a matter of chance and a matter of fact. Each side then led to a spectrum of everything in between. And it’s with the in-between where everything matters.

As all short, sweet, recent essays go, I’ve been engulfed by the triumvirate and this is the third part. While I’ve noticed as of late how difficult it’s been to have sweeping, intellectual conversations about many topics, there are still hints of depth’s diversity. I realize as one gets older they tend to retain less and abide by stricter, epistemological guidelines. It’s a matter of learning ceasing and attention for uncertainty lessening, but whatever the case, we stick to a particular angle more than others. I’ve been struggling with that, with staying put. In coming of age I’m thinking this is exactly where I am, how I am and who I’ll be from now on. I’ve tended to see myself as more, or at least encourage more from me. I don’t feel that any more. I’ve even resorted to caring less about how descriptively I speak of me or anyone else I can’t meld with. All of this is besides the point. What does matter is my dream, my last connection to the cosmos. It comes from a dream I had about Tenzin Gyatso, or the 14th Dalai Lama. He was being followed by several tourists in Taiwan, some Taiwanese, some USAn, all very interested in being seen with him. It happened to be his birthday, or what was being translated as the “Death of Life” by a few of his patrons. At first I felt like a tourist, more focused on the man than what the man was doing. What he was doing was spectacular. He was walking the streets of Taiwan, observing everything living and nonhuman he could. He would stop at flowers and notice a small insect. He noticed a group of beetles rolling around in a clear sac left over from their consumption of the dung’s nutrients. He didn’t know they were dung beetles, so I told him. Until then he hadn’t indulged human life, but he paid attention. We bantered back and forth, which I think he appreciated. Then he noticed some tarps covering grass which themselves were shaded by scaffolding of building construction. He walked over to the tarps and began removing them before a few workers came over and hassled him. It was all caught on video yet no one helped him move the tarps, while I was the one recording. After being woken from the dream I had to check if today was indeed his birthday – it isn’t, but it’s two months to the day away. Not exactly cosmic unless I begin a search through mathematics, use equations and x’s, and place meaning to the end result of discovering it’s Avogadro’s constant, the golden ratio, pi or the number in-between. But I’m not describing ratios, particles, planes and cycles, or a psychological perpetuity. I’m speaking of true expressions of symbols, those we live with everyday through the words and images which confuse our notions of experience and thought. I’m minding the loss of wander and searching for it where it can be found.

As far back as I care to go and as recent as a few minutes ago I wasn’t aware of just how colossal the proximal space of me is. There’s some much to be sensed and become aware of within an arm’s reach or a mile’s walk. The in-between lies there, the social microcosm fully-developed and adapted for a human’s discovery. In the process of civilizing and domesticating material, and contriving and destroying nature, we’re generating single bursts of life unknown. Random, purposeful examples right here. Time has been such an essence, such a relative experience for many and an absolute for me, I’ve forgotten to give it up. I see numbers and colons scattered throughout my living space and never forgo a chance to glance. I didn’t conjure this to end in a decimation of time and a glorification of space, but it has been just enough time for me forget the need to remember. It’s the death of life and the advent of living. The loss of wander and the search for in-between. It’s the love of where and the hate of when. I’m old and need some friends.

The Hierarchical Apexes

A Neurochemical Differentiation

I just finished watching Gasland by Josh Fox and it turned out to be another great documentary about how wealthy, anonymous humans alienate and murder poorer, open-hearted people. Over the years I’ve seen numerous docs about social, environmental and political issues so obviously unnatural as to be only abnormally human. In this case, natural gas and hydraulic fracturing are the culprits and enemies, shown candidly in their grotesque, chemically-hazardous forms. Kind of like their anonymous owners – grotesque and chemical-hazardously formed.

Such a characterization gets me thinking about the neurochemistry of humans who, at the hierarchical apexes of such companies, are responsible for allowing such diabolical acts against fellow humans and organisms. It also gets me thinking about how different I am from them, how my interests and purposes aren’t concerned with theirs, and how I can be an influencing factor in altering the socioeconomic status quo. From years of psychological study concerned with genetics, endocrinology and environment within the natural and nurtural realms of human development, the answer is easier than I think it is, without having to respite for a quick, academic referral from others with data, stats and results who’ve never studied the intoxicated brains of hierarchical apexes. I mean, what governing and grant-awarding agencies or institutes would allow themselves to be the subject group for an in-depth research study on why they’re such ignorant, apathetic, irresponsible, negligent leaders of our various areas of regulation and study? Of course, it doesn’t start with them but with the apexes beyond them who are strictly deemed materialistically-ill, being so full of monetary and arbitrary desires that the end of the quarterly period and their next getaway is more important than hazardous outcomes.

I can’t generalize and suggest chemical ‘imbalance’, but the drive for success, or the centuries old adage of collegiate prescriptions for career attainment, along with continual, genetic conservation of demanding personality traits, leaves the possibility that a very small group of humans are responsible for containing their own highly-destructive social illness and the foreseeable collapse of society. I can’t target a neurotransmitter (norepinephrine and stimulation? dopamine and reward?) or a dose of some synthetic chemical derived from years of work within a particular, industrial arena, but there’s a general perpetuity of moral inadequacy reflected in the groups trained to trace their familial descent to the ‘great’ kings and queens of old, lords and leaders who’ve forced their lives into the being of those persisting with one another and the environment surrounding them.

Over again, I tend to label my solitude and social avoidance as unhealthy, but I don’t tend toward invasion of privacy or life. It’s as simple as that – I don’t invade your existence, especially from a distance and without any actual, sensory interface between us. But the hierarchy of apexes have thrived on such methods – deranged in proximity while finding personal balance by traumatizing those unknown. Sure, you may have met one or two of them before, but they easily mimic the behaviors of ‘lesser’ humans, of those they purport to alienate. It isn’t exactly slavery or indentured servitude because there isn’t physical interaction, but it’s still oppressive, forced and ingratiating without most of us even aware.

This act just isn’t enough for me anymore. I can’t understand how so many academics write about sabotage, ecotage and civilized destruction, and remain passive and secondary to the process of revolution. I’ve always given the excuse that I’ll be ready when the time comes, and it’s basically true. I’ve been collecting the proper tools for immediate, material rebellion and aftermath survival for years. I’ve yet to participate because a feeling inside of me is begging to hold off, to refrain for a bit. It’s because I can’t find the cause I’m willing to die for, can’t accept the terror and destruction of what I’m not aware of, or I’m being logically-calculating while waiting for recruitment. I don’t want to destroy civilization because a book or a film inspired me to do so. I want another person, a group of people to grab me by the hand and guide me toward a revolution against the humans, the hierarchical apexes and all of their protective tekne. I can take myself out of the equation even more by being entirely self-sufficient with a community I can depend on, or I can continue to contribute to the domestic crew infiltrating and inspiring a passionate, necessary and all-encompassing rebellion against energy corps, major research institutions, agribusiness conglomerates, political think tanks and industrial demagogues who’ve continually developed and neurochemically mutated to destroy us immediately and themselves inevitably.

It’s a thirst for synthetics driving them to the top.

Mr. Bicameral’s Socks

Forgetting That He Felt Alone

Sitting in bed one fine, sunny day, One decided he wanted to talk to Two but didn’t want just any conversation. One, a more passionate, impulsive type, wanted some answers from Two, the calm, charismatic rationalist.

“Ya know, this is what it feels like to not have what ya want,” said One, trying to pry open his own mouth but unable to because of a slight bind.

“Not having doesn’t feel like anything, in particular. Or at least I can’t place my finger on just one thing,” said Two, trying to poke one finger into the air.

“I’ll try to describe mine, just to give ya an idea. I know sometimes it can be wordless cuz it usually feels more than it thinks,” said One.

“That’s right. That feeling is inside of me, too. Not outside. Everything beyond my skin – hell, everything beyond my senses is better than fine these days. But the feeling doesn’t exist that far outside of me,” said Two, still poking and reaching but only grabbing air.

“Well, I have a feeling of inadequacy inside of me. I know I’m not as good as other people, but the word ‘good’ don’t describe it. It seems everyone I know has found what they wanna do, at least for today. If I say that talking to ya is what I chose to do, I’d say that’s incorrect. I didn’t choose to do this as much as I was forced to or left with it as an only option,” said One.

“You mean you were bored and this was the only thing you could think to do, and doing it is not satisfying, or at least satisfying the urge to find?” said Two, trying to see the white walls on either side of One’s head.

“Sumpin’ like that,” said One, indenting his head. “In all honesty, my home life is beyond great. I’ve a partner who’s happy to take care of my needs, and I’m more than willing to do my part to make ‘em happy. I don’t have any extravagance, and aren’t bored. Being in my head, exploring the world with what’s behind my eyes is just as satisfying as seeing all the wonders of the physical world. Sure, I’d like to see more of my friends and family, talk about their lives and their knowledge, but they have different agendas which keep ‘em tooth-to-tooth in gear,” said One, moving his head in a circular motion, from up to right to down to left.

“Could it be that you’re trying to search out a final peace?” asked Two.

“What do ya mean by ‘final peace’?” asked One.

“I don’t want to say death but wouldn’t that be just fine?” asked Two, again.

“I ain’t ready to die though. I feel like there’s something I can contribute,” said One, opening his hand, as if to give Two a piece of his inner wealth.

“Isn’t that feeling what keeps you inadequate? Knowing you must contribute just like everyone else,” said Two.

“Yes. That’s it!” said One, exasperated, eyes widened by an arriving epiphany found in Two’s words.

“Well, let me tell you something, you don’t have to contribute to humanity just because human nature says so. That means you don’t have to save lives daily, make people smile all the time or feed the hungry. Most of the people that do those kinds of things have so much material and personal wealth, they can’t understand what it means to be in the poor’s position, even if they once were. They just feel pity toward these people, mixed with an eight-ball of guilt, blame and mercy. Instead, you can contribute to other energies most people don’t understand. It all works out in the end,” said Two.

“Aren’t ya forgetting who judges ya and where ya live – in reality?” asked One.

“Well, judgment is the first problem of yours. And second, reality as defined by you, or any other person is not the reality of other living and non-living things. And no, I don’t remember either. I do understand your concern to connect to other people, but you’re a person, right? Doesn’t that mean you have the only connection you’ll ever need? What are you really trying to accomplish here?” asked Two, raising his forehead into little wrinkles.

“Don’t be so concerned. I hear what ya have to say, but what I’m trying to accomplish is a life – one I can call my own but that’s everyone’s. How the hell am I supposed to do that?” asked One, in a listless tone that kept Two’s forehead wrinkled.

“It isn’t as hard as you think it is. And I know I can’t say ‘don’t think about it,’ because that’s always a cop out. We all think, or at least that’s what we call whatever it means to be a part of the same thing. I guess, let go of what you know. Let go of what you think is supposed to keep you living. Be the kind, understanding and caring person you are and life will take care of you. Along the way you’re bound to get something out of it, even if it’s no longer what you’re searching for,” said Two.

“It all sounds so easy coming from ya. How do ya keep positive and restrained in times of tumultuous mishap? I mean, the world is heating up, powerful people getting more powerful, sick people fucking dying daily, and nature being replaced by the goddamn stairs. There ain’t no longer room for the body in the wooooorrrld of minds!” said One, yelling loud enough that Two had to move back, toward a window which overlooked green grass, green trees and green chairs with “MMH” block-letter insignia written on the backs.

“Hey, calm down there, pal,” said Two, cowering a little more and taking heed from behind a pillow.

“DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!” said One, growling.

“Ok, Ok. But one thing: none of your problems are going to be fixed right now, especially by screaming the rest of your smell out at me. You know, I think I’ve figured out your problem. You’re a human being, raised on your civilized idiosyncrasies and hypocritical lifestyles. Don’t blame yourself for the parts of life you didn’t create on your own, and probably don’t even contribute to now. Most other people don’t feel what you feel, so just chill out pal,” said Two as he tried to approach, albeit cautiously.

“I’m sorry but their words and thoughts and feeling possess my mind. I ain’t never gonna forget their faces. Memories have cursed me,” said One, trying to grab his head, but noticing his hands were indisposed.

“I’m right there with you on that. Why do you think I get along so well? I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning, much less what I said to you a few minutes ago. I must’ve not offended you though, because you are still here,” said Two, giggling a little.

“Oh, very funny. So the soothsayer has turned into the jester, huh?” said One.

“Sarcasm won’t get you very far in life, pal. Except it brings you to the doors of other sarcastic people,” said Two, pointing toward the large, yellow fake wood door. Every time when shut, it crashed like the closing of a prison cell gate.

“Sorry, again. So, what do ya think I should do about my dilemma?” asked One.

“Forget about it. What dilemma was that again?” asked Two, really forgetting but smirking.

“Yea, yea. I guess I really don’t have a choice, do I? Life will be, I’ll be me a little while longer and people’ll never quite understand another person if they don’t try on their own. Cut out the middle man, right?” said One.

“Sure. Keep it between you, and, well, you,” said Two, giving One a little rub on the head, being all that he could do.

“But I don’t want me!” said One, sniveling and jumping around on the bed like a madman.

Then a woman in a white dress carrying a yellow particle-splintered tray with about 20 tiny cups on it, walked into the room and announced, “Hello, boys. I have one for you and two for you. Now, who’s who?”

One, pointing to Two, said, “He’s sad and I’m forgetful,” though he was only trying to be sneaky with her.

The woman turned to Two and asked, “Is that right, sir?”

“I don’t know, I can’t remember. Maybe you should ask him,” said Two, pointing to One.

“Sir, are you sure you’re forgetful and he’s sad?” the nurse asked again of One.

“Dammit, just give him the goddamn pill. I’m sure he’ll remember what he is after he takes it,” said One, bobbing his head like a goofy marionette with an amateur puppet master behind the strings.

“Sure, I will. I think he’ll remember as well,” said Two, pointing to One again and laughing.

“Ok, jokers, here you go. I leave it up to the two of you to figure it out. Now play nice, ok?” said the woman calmly, giving the pills away, one to One and two to Two and watching them being swallowed. When she left she closed the door behind her, startling both One and Two who scrambled to hide from the echo underneath a knitted, white blanket.

As she began down the hall, a man in a white coat with a little black name tag stopped her and asked, “So, nurse, how is Mr. Bicameral doing today?”

“Well, doctor, he pulled out the sock puppets again,” said the nurse, smiling.

“Is he frotteurism and bipolar again?” asked the doctor.

“No, I actually think he is affective and AD. Just ask sock ‘Two’ because sock ‘One’ was being a little testy with me.”

“Well, at least he decided to change it up. Good for him.” said the doctor, as they parted ways, walking in opposite directions down the corridor of the second floor of the Metropolitan Mental Hospital.

Mr. Bicameral

Compos Mentis Scientization

A Deeper, Semantic, Perpetual Paragraph

I try to travel deeply. Let’s say I’m watching an anarchist film. A film with a creatively clever plot, an enduring philosophy and a dark, dank, desirable design. As I get deeper and deeper into the story, ingesting and absorbing the emotional statuses of characters and events, a pivotal action potential is reached. I can no longer hold myself still, no longer restrain my thoughts of destruction and no longer rest comfortably in psychological tissue. I grasp at what I can’t be, yearn for the true nature of me, but only here paint the expression. I can’t do it. I can’t be it. I can’t feel it. I can’t verbalize it. I can’t do, be, feel or think. I only express it in vague terms, only conceptualize it in forms, substances, expressions and contents. My life is in need of only eight words and their corresponding human actions, but half are beyond reach.

At this distance, I’m encouraged to name-drop or reference, to go further as to be accepted by institutional brains. But I won’t. I never do and have defended why I don’t many times. What a waste of pure ingenuity and intuition to recruit the words and thoughts of another human being! It’s enough I was inspired to compose because of extraneous interventions, but to persist in such a state demands mental acuity I can’t devote to the trained process. I’m not a lab monkey or caged rat on the verge of scientization. I’ve already committed domestication, and at this functioning level of epistemology, there are other choices.

When I creep into scholasticism and media-marketed academic frames, I gain a sense of betrayal. Not from those against the good of human propagation, but those against the true continuance of progressive human value. Nonhumans have values they’ve established to proliferate, yet the ultimate influence of humans invades their behavioral vagaries. Nonhumans are betrayed by human force. Humans are betrayed by human force. We assume we’re betraying ourselves by choice but are no different than those never like us. We have no will. There’s a level betrayers haven’t reached and can’t, so the blame is on them. If you can’t kill, don’t. No one pretends they can kill if they’ve not done it before. The same goes for thinkers who really can’t think, who instead inject themselves into a ‘market of ideas’ as patrons of deception. They have no ideas but cling to the originators of theirs.

I’m resentment. I’m angry with the state of mental innovation. The arts have a correct affect, and luckily are seen as portrayers and not betrayers. The betrayers, the ones we think influence daily life such as teachers, professors, scientists, researchers and chairs are staid and circumspect. They don’t chance destruction of the millennia-old patterns destroying action potentials and lines of light, and I’ve gone too far to lay blame, resounding sterility in my own pretension. Denial is harder to confront when the truth magically shoves itself cavernously into my head. My hands hardly allow me be forthright. It’s ethereal.

I come from a general revolutionary intrigue and sprinkle it with the shortsightedness of career instead of cosmic intervention. I mention the static, am the same, and can’t get beyond  dislike. I truly have no inspiration for more than a long afternoon of brainstorming in my bedroom-converted art lab. That’s all I do. That’s how I’m bringing down civilization. One sentence leading to a period without anything really dreamed in between. It can be sad and it can tax a compos mentis existence. The apprehension of achievement dwells within the durable collection of discrete academia. As readily as it deters me, I defer to opposition. I-do-be-feel-think unlike them.

There isn’t a description for my status. It’s wrought from the passions of those without fear. It’s childish in its sense of inculpation. It functions without my logic and outside of personal control. It’s the momentum those with the tools and ability for uncivilized destruction need. I only fear death but wait for their attempt to draw me in. The others have yet to incite action potential. They’re yet to emotionally accrue a revolutionary recruit. They’ve yet to ask me to kill a system, a machine, or a betrayer. The hollow echoes of an educated dismissal intrigues laughter at such a sorry attempt to indoctrinate. If you can’t retain one of your own, how can we retain those who venture even deeper? The ones who act without thought, without an expression beyond reach. I don’t have an answer because as I reach into the distance, my frame of resentment vacates role and reaches a state of revolution. I am the paragraphical tissue of a psychological potentate!

Academic Statement of Purpose

I can’t promise this personal statement will be engaging or visually enabling. In fact, I’m not sure I’ll sit down and write it to completion. My thought is to answer the questions provided honestly, uncover my teaching philosophy and method as I go, and formalize an essay creatively enough to be seriously considered for an award but more so as a passionate, educational reformer.

Teaching is life. The cliché inspires me to reconsider whether or not I believe such a statement. Learning is all that matters to me but it is hardly life. To call teaching life is to suggest I support the underlying hierarchy it assumes, which I don’t. What I realize the further I go is positivity and aspiration, goals, dreams and motivations are not really a part of learning. It is what surmounts from the process – the mistakes, steps, negations and arguments – which really drive purpose. Students learn because they are forced to – absolutely for survival and relatively for interest. If a person could choose their career and learn “how” as they were doing it, the academic system many of us so cherish would collapse under its own pretension. A classroom is far from a proper learning space, far from event, far from extravaganza, and far from the toil of quotidian living. To truly inspire learning is to take students out of what many oppose: conformity.

I’ve been inspired to teach by what is socially considered as failure. I quit school because innovative learning had ceased and the insular ideas were impounding. I could feel the human walls of conformity closing in on me. In the aftermath of reevaluation I took up arms with the slackers and bums, those who thrived in underground ideals never seeing light but sure of the fruitful exposition of lifelong learning. When I decided the way to redeem a failed professorship was genuine connection to students not as “professor” or “Mr.” but as “micah”, I chose to let students teach me. I aimed to guide critical dialogue and cosmic psychism, to never omit a topic as taboo, and to include the quietest and most brutal personalities without force but with acceptance. While there is no intelligible or beneficial rejection of institutionalized education  for a collegiate mind entering the “real” world – whatever students and I decide it is for the semester – there are scenic routes of narrative, question, imagery, unconsciousness, debate, art and craft leading us to frontierism, if such a new landscape can be called. What I devise is a substance and content to be formed and expressed by students whose paths extend boundlessly.

Every student can learn something they’ve never perceived before. With education competing against media, politics, industry and technology for the hearts and minds of the developing person, learning becomes a challenge. I don’t want to be a spectacle, falling prey to entertainment and performance in order to be effective enough to challenge the norm. I do want students to visualize how different their lives can be than they are – even if their dream is unattainable at the moment. Simply seeing what can be, or experiencing a different sensation, thought, responsibility, emotion or person for a few minutes can be the initiator of a perpetual cascade. I can’t ask for more. I want to be an enabler for open-minded, liberating knowledge even if offense is taken or hypocrisy incited. It’s never enough for a student to sit and accept what they’re hearing. It becomes enough when they’re the one’s listened to – by everyone.

I still listen. I befriend the people in my classes. I’m not a parent retaining dominant force over them, I’m a compatriot who thrives on their flashes of genius. After a class months ago, I stumbled upon revolutionary conversation by a few of my brightest students and friends. They asked when I would make a call to arms, but I’m the armchair version of the action they can and need to be pursuing. One of the most redeeming compliments seems to evince itself over and over: “Are you teaching anything else next semester?” Unfortunately, my answer is usually no because I lack reputation amongst decision makers and personal circumstances don’t afford it. Conversely, several former students have chosen psychology as their majors and minors, switching from nursing or adding it to music. Yet, while I have my share of failing grades, I’ve never had a failure unless that student has given up before beginning. At the very least, we have seen eye-to-eye about our predicament and I’ve ensured I’d be there for them again if they decided to give it a second shot.

Up to this point, as I’ve read through the suggested questions with loose interpretation, my answers have been awe-inspired and hardly methodical. The method and philosophy of my instruction lies very deep within the gentle craft of a curriculum empowering individuality for social cause. My lessons plans are simple and hardly technical or objective.

For those students who thrive on order and architecture, I provide a few textbook assignments, though never from a textbook. I test them without having to give an introductory quiz to gauge their knowledge, writing and research abilities. I take time to give considerable feedback immediately, offering it as a guide for the subsequent adage of progressive psychologism they’ll continue to gain from self-exposition. While it’s not always obvious from evaluations and comments, much of the work is clearly enjoyable. Students tend to appreciate developmental essays, dream journals, social debates and oral final exams. If one assignment is not his or her forte, the next assignment is diverse enough to cater to their interests, as well as create neurological growth. I refuse to grade 16 study reviews from the textbook and give 3 to 5 exams every semester. Rote repetition is not the future of learning and students have never vowed to be mechanized but efface convention with unpredictability.

I’m a student of plurality and liberation. I specialize in psychology, ethology, biology, anthropology, ecology and sociology but feed esoteric hungers with cognitive science, neurophysiology, critical theory, anarchy, chaos theory, linguistics and graphic arts. I filter each area into introductory courses as much as possible without detriment to the future of students, but with enough vigor to attract a variety of fascinations. It is never possible for institutions to be as advanced as an individual’s thinking – for that is how our groups are formed – and I aim for personal and formal success synthesized. My goals are simple: deconstruct modern education from hierarchical to rhizomatic, continue to unfold and reignite the courses I teach, and provide desiring learners another chance for a deeper and more enlightening experience with me inside and outside of the classroom.

There isn’t an obvious ends to a personal statement about oneself and the career they love. There shouldn’t be. I will extirpate a truth from this situation and do so selfishly. To be nominated for such an award is a privilege and honor, but to apply for it is oppressive and unscrupulous. If I were truly seen as outstanding and worthy of this award, it would be offered as a reward for my work and educational insight, a group endeavor and not an accolade from a grateful person or two. Ironically, work and insight encourage me passed this experience without crossing my fingers because I’ve already been appreciated and thanked by those whom matter most: students. If I do receive an award then I’m pleased by the awareness of what needs to be done for education and I’m grateful our time has arrived!

Rhizome

Rhizomes grown in the mind of an underground…

From a Biopsychological Framework To Anarchaotic Blocks

Psychology is the study of human variation and cyclicism. In tradition, psyche has been a true victim of lexical levity and semantic foreplay. From its origins as the flow of inner blood and outer breath, to the heart and brains in which it is stored, to the tangential mind and mechanical behavior dissociated from true human endeavor, psyche has been given little justice outside of its structural, functional and associative countenance. The true gist of psyche lies in what it does, even if the result is thought, feeling or being. Each expression of the ability of psyche is best understood as different or varied from one organism to the next, even if the material means of getting to the point are similar. What is even more inert in the ability to use brains or nerves as the substance of intangible force is the common cycle of development traveled not only for humanity but also a human’s self-relationship via intra-specific comparison. While we search for the perfect way to explain what the mind or psyche could be, there is lapse in the act of movement toward variation and cyclicism being its own sign, object, event or presence of complete representational quality.

In attempting to order how psychology’s explanandum should be organized, there are always conundrums. I’ve never agreed with the table of contents of any psychological textbook and have tried to reorganize flow many times. What psychologists tend to do is give an integrated approach to the severed duality continually propagated since the Greeks were on to something personable in terms of existenz explicans. Unfortunately, not many protological formats serve the purpose of doing neoteric psychology justice. What I’ve stumbled upon is an organization of the areas taught: as one integrated course following a hierarchical and dualistic path or as blocks of conceptualization representing each other (see above). I’ve arranged them dualistically as partners – one from a biological or first nature approach and the other a psychological or second nature approach – but can’t decide if they should be introduced based on how humans physically develop abilities or as a hierarchy of understanding superseding the often ignorant logic given within problem-solving. This is where the blocks of liberality take precedent, with each being subject to co-independence as a resolute consideration for any form or level of psychological learning.

Anarchaos psychology is the study of mutually uncertain human diversity and rhizomicism. The re-orientation of supposed psychological ordination belies individualized diversity over variated physiology and conserved cyclic descent replaced by rhizomatic dynamism. Psychologists take a historical precedent for genesis, moving from theory to fact derived from theory. Life science, human science and the atomistic precursors to ability retain linearity toward the unification of faculty in hierarchical mentation. The subsequent stages of socialization for cortical capability lead to obvious biological interpretations of what person is – animal first. While this pattern of psychological conceptualization provides obvious organismal affiliation, it also methodizes the much more chaotic and dynamic relationship of human-as-animal rather than human-as-person. To take the other half of the dualism is to travel the path of  less obvious resistance yet more impenetrable force. To challenge the absolute tenets of psychology such as consciousness, cognition or gender is to offend the person of which anyone reading these words is. There is possibility of a movement from different and circular to blending  and branching. Using anarchaos as a method rather than an item to define and understand psyche allows dynamic point zeros and a fluid interrelatedness of notional mentation – everything can be the beginning of the indeterminant pattern of human.