#Creative Philosophy

[omegaphilosophia]

The Philosophy of Imagism

The philosophy of Imagism is grounded in clarity, precision, and directness in both thought and expression. Originating in early 20th-century poetry, Imagism was a literary movement that rejected the ornate and sentimental style of Victorian poetry in favor of clear, sharp imagery and economy of language. Philosophically, Imagism can be understood as a response to the changing perceptions of truth, language, and beauty in modernity.

Core Philosophical Principles of Imagism:

1. Direct Treatment of the “Thing”

Imagists believed that a poem should present an object, emotion, or scene without unnecessary abstraction or embellishment. This reflects a philosophical commitment to phenomenological clarity—capturing experience as it is perceived, not mediated by convention or vague generalities.

2. Precision and Economy of Language

Imagists strove for linguistic minimalism, where every word earned its place. This economy reflects an anti-rhetorical stance, opposing the idea that more words equal more meaning. In this way, it shares ground with analytic philosophy and logical positivism, which also value precision and clarity in language.

3. Image as Epiphany

The image in Imagism is not merely descriptive—it is revelatory. A single image, rendered cleanly and truthfully, can convey complex emotions and insights. This approach resonates with Zen philosophy, where truth is often transmitted through the immediate and the concrete.

4. Rejection of Traditional Forms

Imagists often broke away from strict meter and rhyme, favoring free verse that matched the natural rhythm of thought and speech. This rebellion mirrors a broader modernist critique of tradition, questioning inherited structures in both art and life.

5. Sensory Experience as Truth

Imagism’s reliance on visual and sensory imagery places it close to empiricism, the philosophical view that knowledge arises from sensory experience. The image becomes a primary unit of meaning, conveying truth without requiring conceptual explanation.

Philosophical Influences and Parallels:

Ezra Pound (a key Imagist) was influenced by Chinese and Japanese poetry, especially haiku, which share a focus on simplicity and immediacy.

T.E. Hulme, another foundational figure, drew on Bergson’s philosophy of intuition, arguing that art should convey the essence of experience, not abstract ideas.

Symbolist poetry and phenomenology are also close cousins to Imagism in their emphasis on perception and inner experience.

Summary:

Imagism, philosophically, is a poetic discipline rooted in clarity, perception, and minimalism. It values truth that arises from direct experience and believes that a well-rendered image can carry the weight of philosophical insight. Imagism is not just a style of poetry—it is a way of seeing, one that honors the concrete over the abstract, the specific over the general, and the immediate over the idealized.

[inkabelledesigns]

-looks at the basket of in progress doll customs hiding in my closet- ...Oh dear.

Nah I'm just playing. XD Sometimes you need a WIP to sit and marinate for a bit to figure itself out. Art isn't always ready to blossom all at once. Sometimes it needs time to simply, be, instead of being complete.

One should always have at least 2 craft projects going. That way, when one of them is messed up and misbehaving, you can switch to another, and let the first one sit there and think about what it's done.

[en--tropy]

[zomb13s]

Navigating the Sea of Opinions: The Creative Brilliance of Alfons Scholing

In the realm of creativity and intellect, there are few individuals who stand out as prominently as Alfons Scholing, the CEO of ikziezombies.com. Alfons is not only a creative expert with three decades of experience but also a passionate advocate for the pursuit of truth and facts. What makes him even more unique is that he is autistic, which brings a refreshing and honest perspective to the…

[philosophybits]

Most people do not themselves know how interesting they really are, what interesting things they really say. A true representation of themselves — a sketch and assessment of what they say would evoke the greatest amazement in them about themselves and help them to discover in themselves a completely new world.

Novalis, Logological Fragments II

[project-quoter]

Shop | Raw Edge Gallery

[jaggedjawjosh]

You asked for my trust, then marred it with betrayal, wondering why the faith was lost.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hi, sorry but I was wondering if you have any romantic or philosophical "ancient Greek" quotes/phrases/poems?

Thank you :)) I love your account btw its so helpful

Ancient Greek Proverbs & Phrases

“A gift consists not of what is done or given, but in the intention of the giver or doer.” (Seneca)

“Educating the mind without educating the heart is no education at all.” (Aristotle)

“Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.” (Plato)

“Eyes that don’t see each other frequently are soon forgotten.” - Μάτια που δεν βλέπονται γρήγορα λησμονιούνται (Proverb)

“For all great men, the entire earth is a tomb.” - Ανδρών επιφανών πάσα γη τάφος (Thucydides)

“Love consists of one soul that is living within two bodies.” - Η αγάπη αποτελείται από μία ψυχή που κατοικεί σε δύο σώματα (Aristotle)

“Love is a serious mental disease.” (Plato)

“Love without a bit of stubborness isn’t tasteful.” - Αγάπη χωρίς πείσματα δεν έχει νοστιμάδα (Proverb)

“Man—a being in search of meaning.” (Plato)

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” (Heraclitus)

“One word sets us free from all the weight and the pain in life. And that word is: love.” - Μία λέξη μας απελευθερώνει από όλο το βάρος και τον πόνο στη ζωή. Και αυτή η λέξη είναι: αγάπη (Sophocles)

“People are like dirt. They can either nourish you and help you grow as a person or they can stunt your growth and make you wilt and die.” (Plato)

“The tongue has no bones but it crushes bones.” - Η γλώσσα κόκαλα δεν έχει και κόκαλα τσακίζει (Proverb)

“The unexamined life is not worth living.” - Ο ανεξεταστος βιος ου βιωτος ανθρωπω (Socrates)

“Τhe world only exists when you can share it.” - Ο κόσμος μόνο όταν τον μοιράζεσαι υπάρχει (Tasos Leivaditis, Greek poet)

“There are two things a person should never be angry at: What they can help, and what they cannot.” (Plato)

“We can’t live with each other, neither can we live without one another.” - Εμείς μαζί δεν κάνουμε και χώρια δεν μπορούμε (Proverb)

“What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others.” (Pericles)

“When the mind is thinking, it is talking to itself.” (Plato)

“Wise men talk because they have something to say; fools, because they have to say something.” (Plato)

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

Thanks so much for your lovely words! Hope this helps with your writing :)

[thoughtsafterdark]

Hospitals and Airports are the closest modernity can come to reaching the Divine

Have you noticed how some places seem immune to time and social conventions. Like airports, those monoliths of now. Harsh lights burning and souls criss-crossing, tongues melting together into a writhing throng of humanity, a steaming cesspit of consciousness. Steeped in camaraderie yet drenched in isolation. The electric blue arrivals sign glares with neon brightness at 3am, a beacon that signals the end of the road.

Here comes a family of 4 on their way home, crossing through automatic doors into the balmy drizzle of a British night, carrying their loot of straw hats and cheap pendants, tan lines and peeling red lobster skin. A girl no older than 5 limps after her parents and older brother. She lugs her bright pink unicorn behind her and hugs the hood of lilac pyjamas close, rubs the sleep out of her eyes whilst her mother shouts at her to hurry. Soon she’ll tuck herself into bed, in the attic of their ordinary red brick London row house, and she’ll watch the sun peak over the trees in the back garden for the first time in her life. It will become a core memory she will think fondly back on for years to come.

By the first class lounge they hurried past, a man in an impeccable suit (Sheep’s wool, the finest money can buy. The grey colour of the Thames on an early morning) paces back and forth restlessly, briefcase in hand, phone in another. Gold amber eyes like a hawk, close cropped black hair and neatly trimmed beard, square pocket matching the deep tan of his shoes (authentic leather). He is barking orders to someone in Arabic, closing deals, building empires. A bloodied napkin he used to stop a nosebleed earlier falls out of his pocket and winks up at the scaffolding exposed ceiling, high and arching like the dome of a cathedral. He’ll make the sale, then visit the airport bathroom again before hailing a cab to the closest 5 star. In the morning, the maid who took the job to send money to her ailing mother in the Philippines will find his cold stiff body and scream. She’ll call the police and be taken in for questioning. She never signed up for this.

At the hospital coffee shop – two streets and half a lifetime away - a 4th year med students sips on a cortado like her life depends on it. Caffeine surges through her veins, bracing her for the day ahead. Unbelievable how exhausting trying to take up as little space as possible can be. She hates the spiel, it’s the same every time. A new dawn, a new face, a new team. The introductions, the smiling, the grovelling, the headache. She’s 5ft flat with bright orange hair, aspirations for Neurosurgery and a bright pink notebook, so why would they take her seriously.

It’s 8:30, and she’s scheduled for 9am clinic, so she has time for a hurried breakfast today. (Eating any earlier makes her gag). Small mercies. The off-red stained scrubs she nicked from the theatre changing rooms cling to her like a second skin preparing to moult. She squirms in them, the comfort undeniable. They make her feel like she belongs. They make her feel like an imposter.

Her table – she comes here so often; she thinks of it as hers - sits right by large windows overlooking the main entrance and staircase. She sees it all from here, her quiet unassuming throne. The doctors and nurses, physios and pharmacists. Rushing rushing, running, stressing. Wishing, hoping, waiting, waiting, waiting. For the shift to end, for the time for bed. For this rotation to change, for the exam to pass. We’ll go on that holiday next month, next year. When money isn’t tight, when things are more settled.  Before they know it they’ve wished their lives away.

Their patients understand, all too well and all too late. The same father with the IV drip and the metal stand comes down here every morning to see his daughters. They run up to him, he holds them close and beams. But his grip is getting weaker, smile is getting thinner. He doesn’t answer when they ask when he’s coming home. It’s funny what we can’t hear when we’re too busy wearing stethoscopes. Next month she (I) will be stationed on the Psych ward. We’ll have to do it all again, but maybe they’ll hear me this time. Maybe it’ll get easier.

Between them all and among them, if you squint and unfocus your eyes during one of those ungodly hours at the Starbacks across from Boots and WHSmith, leaning against a grey white pillar you might see him.

He is the spectre that haunts airport lounges and waiting rooms alike, the handsome stranger with the black snapback and the beats headphones and the khaki shorts. The one who lives out of a rucksack and wears a travel pillow like a crown. With the kind eyes and crows feet, and honey chestnut curls. He is that boy from your high school everyone liked, with a kind word for everyone; the one with a charmers smile and the charisma to bullshit his way through anything. The one who – when pressed for future plans, would laugh and shake his head, looking down bashfully. “I just want to travel for now, see where it takes me. I want to see the world”, he’d say, eyes twinkling with the possibilities. On someone else, the words would likely merit a telling off, they’d be seen as the paper thin excuse to fuck around and get high. But he seemed so genuine, and his teeth were such a dazzling shade of brilliant white when he smiled, even the strictest careers advisers couldn’t resist.

He lives in those moments, the liminal fabric between worlds that’s so hard to put your finger on. Blink and you’ll miss him in the old alleys of Rome, the spark of his cigarette lighter blending amongst the city lights.

You’ll find him among the most remote hiking trails of the Peloponnese, laughing with local shepherds and German tourists alike, sitting on jutting rocky cliffs and admiring the blue Mediterranean below. If you really pay attention, you’ll see his staff isn’t like the others. Something suspiciously like a pair of snake slithers up and down. You could swear you heard them whispering just now, but when you look again it’s just a wooden stick.

He is the patron of us wanderers and travellers, those of us with movement in our blood and restlessness in our hearts. The ones who beget the will of changing winds and shifting tides. The ones who can’t allow themselves to sit still, lest the dust settle and the coffee get cold. The mortifying ordeal of being seen and known. Or the ones that carry a hearth with them, in the bottom of a suitcase, in the heart of a trailer. The ones who move and weave through the Earth not because they are running but because they are coming home. He dances and jokes with the kids amongst campfires, always welcome, always a pleasure. And if he helps them pick the odd lock, swearing solemnly to secrecy, who are we to judge.

His bronze skin smells of cinnamon and nutmeg, vanilla and cedar and a thousand other spices. He reeks of incense and market stalls, moles and freckles tell the story of trading routes and old silk roads, of cotton shawls from Alexandria and silk from Pekking. His fingers and eyes twinkle with the good-natured mischief of petty thieves and sleight-of-hand magicians, tricksters and circus performers. He picks apples from behind ears, presents jewel necklaces to his lovers.

She sees him now, amongst the patients. He helps an old lady up the steps, pulls a balloon out of his back pocket to the delight of a sick child. She locks eyes with him and they nod at one another She has been seen now, and known. Perhaps she’ll find him again one day, if either stop running.

[pcktknife]

mmm kind of a bad end robin. still a singer but think less pop and more requiem

[noosphe-re]

Though artists generally aren't aware of it, that end work is a by-product of a greater desire. We aren't creating to produce or sell material products. The act of creation is an attempt to enter a mysterious realm. A longing to transcend. What we create allows us to share glimpses of an inner landscape, one that is beyond our understanding. Art is our portal to the unseen world.

Rick Rubin, The Creative Act: A Way of Being

[alexvnderblvck]

"Autumn Leaves" by @alexvnderblvck

Feat. Keyla

[en--tropy]

[obscurescholar]

"We have to dare to be ourselves, however frightening or strange that self may prove to be."

— May Sarton