A geometry implies the heterogeneity of locus, namely that there is a locus of the Other. Regarding this locus of the Other, of one sex as Other, as absolute Other, what does the most recent development in topology allow us to posit?
quote by Jacques Lacan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Li'l' Gal
Oh, de weathah it is balmy an' de breeze is sighin' low.
Li'l' gal,
An' de mockin' bird is singin' in de locus' by de do',
Li'l' gal;
Dere 's a hummin' an' a bummin' in de lan' f'om eas' to wes',
I 's a-sighin' fu' you, honey, an' I nevah know no res'.
Fu' dey 's lots o' trouble brewin' an' a-stewin' in my breas',
Li'l' gal.
Whut 's de mattah wid de weathah, whut's de mattah wid de breeze,
Li'l' gal?
Whut 's de mattah wid de locus' dat 's a-singin' in de trees,
Li'l' gal?
W'y dey knows dey ladies love 'em, an' dey knows dey love 'em true,
An' dey love 'em back, I reckon, des' lak I 's a-lovin' you;
Dat 's de reason dey 's a-weavin' an' a-sighin', thoo an' thoo,
Li'l' gal.
Don't you let no da'ky fool you 'cause de clo'es he waihs is fine,
Li'l' gal.
Dey 's a hones' hea't a-beatin' unnerneaf dese rags o' mine,
Li'l' gal.
Cose dey ain' no use in mockin' whut de birds an' weathah do,
But I 's so'y I cain't 'spress it w'en I knows I loves you true,
Dat 's de reason I 's a-sighin' an' a-singin now fu' you,
Li'l' gal.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Once the brokerage house, rather than the bank, became the locus for American savings, that money would find its way into the stock market, because the broker was someone with a much higher tolerance for risk than the banker.
quote by Ron Chernow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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From Doveglion, the use of a comma
Purity... before, I,
Stepped, to, the, Door, and,
At, the, Door—
And, as, I, passed,
Out, the, Door...
Line, orbit, locus:
Peril, deed, and, map, of,
Blaze! Peril,
Of, immediate,
Hunter: daze,
Whirl, of, supreme,
Migrator: pull, of, his,
Gravite, anchor!
Fact, act, of, me,
To, me: Knitter:
Cleaver, of, me, Intac
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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z-Force Majeure
How then does Force Majeure
threaten all existence;
often wielded by the bluntest instrument?
How can it be
that rank murder
can Imagination extinguish?
How can human genius be crushed
by a louts blow,
ignorant of kindness
or the million years it took
to create the opposable thumb
then used to bludgeon the human skull.
What justice is there then
in a world so arduously created
but so easily destroyed
by means foul and low?
Why does Nature provide
for evolution's progress
yet not allow it to survive,
but instead subject us to the lows
and highs
of periodic extinguishments,
of starting over and over again
with new blueprints
for new flora and fauna,
which after millennia
can be dashed by a another rock
incoming from outer space?
Where is the plan here?
Where is the justice scale
which makes this make sense?
If we then succumb to flaming craters
or rampant disease
if all Genius can be murdered
on the dark streets,
What wherefore is the point here?
Such gloom and toil
aways there
looms over every tree
and every unsuspecting fleur de lis.
Nature herself cannot be the blame
for nature too blows up in fiery steam.
Where then is the locus true;
the Explanation Grandiloquent
which fixes the true locus of blame?
Is all Cold Physics;
random luck
and ugly death in
future states?
Does honor lay
in resisting this fate;
to struggle against the
the Extinguishment Date?
Too weighty here
for me to see.
I lay me down
Headache Bound
to contemplate
this another day
but understanding
thus;
that the end is never the end
but only the pause
before the new blueprint
and the story
renews.
Our burden is renewal;
death gives way to the new
but,
then again
all that sounds
very familiar too.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Nostalgias Drug Trafficking
Beauties ugliness
is times growing divide
Every spring's may flower
Becomes a Locus of pride
Until the steel blade of winter
Demolishes all selfish brides
And all fatal attractions
Encumber new wisdom lines
The taste of the apple
Sours when it has falling
Recoil the serpent
Who prays during its shedding
On a highway of deserts
Where Martyrs of sinning
Impede with excellence
Nostalgias drug trafficking
poem by Kevin Patrick
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Freedom is Anarchy
Feeling free in full freedom
A quest yet accomplished.
Thinking of the locus and milieu
One, just caring but for himself
The next man a friend without ‘r’
Selfishness as a form of Government
Crudity and rudeness as parastatals
Love, a law against the land
Commitment, crime punishable by death
Patriots, sure candidates for exile.
Free full fledged freedom
How possible for people to practice?
Discerning, doing-destroying at will
For discretion is freedom?
Ultimate freedom allows at least one control
Something controls something
Unlimited freedom is facile.
poem by Kctony Xtopher Nkwocha
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Africa's Calling
Take me back to Africa
where Hippos and Lions roam.
Where Giraffes and Zebra live in harmony
making Africa's tundra their life, their home.
Rains come not often to drench dry thirst of land
not as often as one would like.
Locus clouds plague the land
while devouring everything in sight.
Uglyness yet beauty of this land
only the stong can and will survive.
Scavenger birds picking bones clean
all that was hunted, killed and died.
Africa calling, this land inbred in me.
Just take me home to Africa
Africa's calling again to see.
poem by Linda Winchell
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July In Georgy
I'm back down in ole Georgy w'ere de sun is shinin' hot,
W'ere de cawn it is a-tasslin', gittin' ready fu' de pot;
W'ere de cott'n is a-openin' an' a-w'itenin' in de sun,
An' de ripenin' o' de sugah-cane is mighty nigh begun.
An' de locus' is a-singin' f'om eveh bush an' tree,
An' you kin heah de hummin' o' de noisy bumblebee;
An' de mule he stan's a-dreamin' an' a-dreamin' in de lot,
An' de sun it is a-shinin' mighty hot, hot, hot.
But evehbody is a-restin', fu' de craps is all laid by,
An' time fu' de camp-meetin' is a-drawin' putty nigh;
An' we's put away de ploughshare, an' we's done hung up de spade,
An' we's eatin' watermelon, an' a-layin' in de shade.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Noon
Shadder in de valley
Sunlight on de hill,
Sut'ny wish dat locus'
Knowed how to be still.
Don't de heat already
Mek a body hum,
'Dout dat insec' sayin'
Hottah days to come?
Fiel' 's a shinin' yaller
Wid de bendin' grain,
Guinea hen a callin',
Now's de time fu' rain;
Shet yo' mouf, you rascal,
Wha' 's de use to cry?
You do' see no rain clouds
Up dah in de sky.
Dis hyeah sweat's been po'in'
Down my face sence dawn;
Ain't hit time we 's hyeahin'
Dat ah dinnah ho'n?
Go on, Ben an' Jaspah,
Lif yo' feet an' fly,
Hit out fu' de shadder
Fo' I drap an' die.
Hongry, lawd a' mussy,
Hongry as a baih,
Seems lak I hyeah dinnah
Callin' evahwhaih;
Daih 's de ho'n a blowin'!
Let dat cradle swing,
One mo' sweep, den da'kies,
Beat me to de spring!'
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Whip
Great Great Great Great
is thy work
The fortune hunter
your uninterrupted lamp
has
torch light out the
parasite in their closet
like an erosion that called
the black pot of sacrifice of the perpetrator
Great Great Great Great
is thy work
The fervent farmer
your crude instrument
has
uprooted the unwanted ornament
in the vineyard
like locus waiting the planter
Great Great Great Great
is thy work
The lean steward
you never sleep nor slumber
in the quest of monitoring the
offender in the field like Nigeria
EFCC punching out the beautiful criminals
Great Great Great Great
is thy work
The no nonsense headmaster
with this
masquerade Cain whipping
the deaf prefect in the school of moral
The whip that caution the senior wife
is at the top of the roof for
YOU
poem by Samuel Abimbola Aladetan
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Persecution Complex
What to do when ghosts appear at noon? Coming up the lane
to my retreat, where I have been hiding for twenty years, from
wife her eight children, five horses and a pack of howling dogs.
They are coming to take me away. Camp outside my cottage
knock on windows looking in calling my name want to come in.
How long can I hide behind the sofa the floor is stone hard?
It is dark now but they have flashlights shine into windows to
see sign of life, I have to try sneak into the kitchen they can’t
see me there, open a tin of sardines and drink cold water.
This is going to turn into a long siege. It’s three in the morning
they sleep in their tents, I sneak out take my scooter, and as
it is downhill all the way to the main road, they can’t hear me.
They can take my house, locus eat my land and sell my tractor.
I drive into summer dawn, free of domestic enslavement.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Descent
The story read for you today,
you questioned what it meant.
I searched the symbols it conveyed
and found the meanings rent.
The truth profound but not around,
and you, your focus spent;
on surface flotsam, tragic clowns,
and show a locus of decent.
If youth be spent in tenements
and hungry hunter's spoor
what need for guiding confidence
upon the distant shore.
To argue with a spirit bold
This out of body experience
making one feel really old
while the listeners experiment.
The father's, father mimed the world
the father's, father spoke the word.
The father's son becomes the story
Seeking fame, the fortune and the glory.
Then come father, come to be son,
the lessons learned become undone.
The future son hones his decent
while slowly saving for the rent.
Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze
Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze
Lives 'way up in the leaves o' trees.
An' wunst I slipped up-stairs to play
In Aunty's room, while she 'uz away;
An' I clumbed up in her cushion-chair
An' ist peeked out o' the winder there;
An' there I saw--wite out in the trees--
Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze!
An' Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze
Would bow an' bow, with the leaves in the breeze,
An' waggle his whiskers an' raggledy hair,
An' bow to me in the winder there!
An' I 'd peek out, an' he'd peek in
An' waggle his whiskers an' bow ag'in,
Ist like the leaves'u'd wave in the breeze--
Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze!
An' Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze,
Seem-like, says to me: 'See my bees
A-bringin' my dinner? An' see my cup
O' locus'-blossoms they've plum' filled up?'
An' '_Um-yum, honey!_' wuz last he said,
An' waggled his whiskers an' bowed his head;
An' I yells, 'Gimme some, won't you, please,
Old Man Whiskery-Whee-Kum-Wheeze?'
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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In Einstein's general relativity the structure of space can change but not its topology. Topology is the property of something that doesn't change when you bend it or stretch it as long as you don't break anything.
quote by Edward Witten
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Winter Solstice: The Return of the Light and the Redemption of Darkness
Darkness follows light as light the darkness
the stunned sun halts mid-dance
Shiva Nataraj
motionless
balancing lightly the luminous and tenebrous
exhorting us again to brave the redeeming depth of the shadow
Beyond the celebrated land of light
that seems so divinely uplifting
that dabbles in the windfall waters of virtue
and dallies in the Garden of Diversion...
we find the locus of the Shadow
that disquieting darkness
the vision that threatens to char the sockets of the eyes
We know the shadow by our avoidance
the nimble step,
the sideward glance
the drowsy daydream
the sidestepped fantasy
the impulse denied
or not
We know it by our accidents of speech
the slip of the tongue
the telltale blush
and the complaints of friends
We know it by our nightly dreams
that render such faithful and unswerving service to the shadow.
Go then
taking as your virtue
both courage and impeccability
swords against fear and pride
That from which we turn away grows stronger
poem by Joan Woodbridge
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Fundamental of Liar Chapter XCVIII: Absolutely Relative
Expensive is absolute, cheap is relative
Far is absolute, near is relative
Ugly is absolute, beauty is relative
Weird is absolute, crazy is relative
Stubborn is absolute, brave is relative
Stupid is absolute, smart is relative
Weak is absolute, strong is relative
Old is absolute, mature is relative
Lose is absolute, win is relative
Rich is absolute, poor is relative
Sad is absolute, happy is relative
Misfortune is absolute, lucky is relative
Safe is absolute, fear is relative
Love is absolute, hate is relative
Important is absolute, forgotten is relative
Easy is absolute, difficult is relative
Wrong is absolute, right is relative
Bad is absolute, good is relative
Lie is absolute, truth is relative
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Landon Bay
Nature
Updated January 21,2008
LANDON BAY
OPUS 41
The gentle breeze puts leaves to sway.
Light ripples caress the glassy sheen.
The red sloop is moored in Landon Bay
An idyllic setting, so serene.
Distant islands off the tree-lined point,
Covered with a haze of misty gray.
Somehow, time is out of joint,
Close to the town of Gananoque.
When gazing on this peaceful scene,
One wonders why this place is here,
Or if the presence of a single scream,
Could make this setting disappear?
Why are the terrors of the outside world
Distributed, among us, so unevenly?
Why are some places lovely to behold,
And others filled with agony?
While some of us feel only pain,
And life is constant misery,
Here is the locus of the Lord's domain,
And nature cries with sympathy.
Perhaps, it is to let us know,
That sanctuary still is found,
Where spirit can begin to grow,
And love can wax on fertile ground.
Written at Landon Bay, Ontario.
Steven B. Taylor
August 31,1997
poem by Steven B. Taylor
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Chennai To Puri (Via Ooty, Mysore & Hydrabad)
almost a picnic, on LTC - my PSU will reimburse,
pre-booked air, A/c Two-tier journey tickets,
With bag and baggage, playing cards,
games-loaded laptops, i-pods, plenty of music,
fashioned, tight-fitting dresses, eatables, camera
several sittings at exclusive beauty parlour,
already reserved cottages -
pick-ups, & sight seeing pre-arranged
and in jubilant mood;
we are set on a holy pilgrimage,
every year, to new - new destinations
from Kanyakumari to Gangtok….
Via Kulu, Manali, Jaisalmer and Bikaner
when the school closes down
at HIS ABODE, we are too selfish
begging for our own needs and wishes
sometimes, our desires are not legal or ethical
openly bribing by liberal offerings in the ‘HUNDI'
‘glued God' has no option but has to consent
to the whims and fancies of the donor-devotees
If, the RICH only can tap HIS BLESSINGS is TRUE
That ‘CAPITALIST GOD' would lose his ‘locus standi'
then,
my next LTC is due in coming August
we want to go up to Wagha border
touching Somnath, Dwarka, Jodhpur and Amritsar
any suggestions? I will not listen, it is my ENTITLEMENT.
Louis Santhana
poem by Santhana Louis
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The results indicate that heterogeneity of race and heterogeneity of family educational background can increase the achievement of children from weak educational backgrounds with no adverse effect on children from strong educational backgrounds.
quote by James S. Coleman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Waitin' Fer The Cat To Die
Lawzy! don't I rickollect
That-'air old swing in the lane!
Right and proper, I expect,
Old times _can't_ come back again;
But I want to state, ef they
_Could_ come back, and I could say
What _my_ pick 'ud be, i jing!
I'd say, Gimme the old swing
'Nunder the old locus'-trees
On the old place, ef you please!--
Danglin' there with half-shet eye,
Waitin' fer the cat to die!
I'd say, Gimme the old gang
Of barefooted, hungry, lean,
Ornry boys you want to hang
When you're growed up twic't as mean!
The old gyarden-patch, the old
Truants, and the stuff we stol'd!
The old stompin'-groun', where we
Wore the grass off, wild and free
As the swoop of the old swing,
Where we ust to climb and cling,
And twist roun', and fight, and lie--
Waitin' fer the cat to die!
'Pears like I 'most allus could
Swing the highest of the crowd--
Jes sail up there tel I stood
Downside-up, and screech out loud,--
Ketch my breath, and jes drap back
Fer to let the old swing slack,
Yit my tow-head dippin' still
In the green boughs, and the chill
Up my backbone taperin' down,
With my shadder on the ground'
Slow and slower trailin' by--
Waitin' fer the cat to die!
Now my daughter's little Jane's
Got a kind o' baby-swing
On the porch, so's when it rains
She kin play there--little thing!
And I'd limped out t'other day
With my old cheer this-a-way,
Swingin' _her_ and rockin' too,
Thinkin' how _I_ ust to do
At _her_ age, when suddently,
'Hey, Gran'pap!' she says to me,
'Why you rock so slow?' ... Says I,
'Waitin' fer the cat to die!'
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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