‘FREETHINKING’ ― the Holy Grail of our Existence

‘FREETHINKING’ ― the Holy Grail of our Existence

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Freethinking is the greatest, single most important thing we have in our existence. The autonomous power in being a truly independent thinker requires that we…as individuals…keep challenging ourselves to always think…Always Question Above All. The day we stop doing that…or the day that ‘muscle upholding autonomy’ has atrophied, is the day we’ve been long buried…by ourselves. This “War of the (human) Mind” has been unfolding for as long as breathing itself. Same game, different players. Ironic to consider that the Father of Freethinking – Socrates – was himself ultimately ‘rewarded’ for his teachings of Freethinking and encouraging “Change”, with execution by poison.

FAMINE CHAIR
White Wings in the Dark
Place in Landscape Moulin de Senlis

Place in Landscape Moulin de Senlis

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The connection between nature and music became a profound force for me while I lived at this institution. Part of my daily routine was to find some inner comfort by walking alone along a creek at the back of the premises. Walking in nature became a way to deal with the uncertainties of my early childhood.

Our Book of Hours
Words

Words

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By Elline Lipkin

The Importance of Arts, Culture & The Creative Process
We’d love to hear your thoughts on the importance of the arts and humanities and how this project resonates with you.
I love the idea of writing about writing — tracing where creativity first sparked and where the lit fuse led. This piece (submitted) first was published online with Silver Birch Press.

What was the inspiration for your creative work?
I believe I was two or three years old in this photo, at that time living in New Jersey, before my family relocated to Miami, where I grew up. My brother and I were fascinated by my father’s old manual typewriter — it seemed magical the way words came out of the top. I think we were also just at that age of realizing the power words hold. Recently, I bought an old manual typewriter at an auction. Something about the lack of the intermediary of technology makes striking out words more satisfying and immediate.

Tell us something about the natural world that you love and don’t wish to lose. What are your thoughts on the kind of world we are leaving for the next generation?
I don't wish to lose the seasons. Growing up in Miami we 'joked' that there were two seasons — 'hot' and 'hotter.' Now it seems to be hot all of the time. Now that I live in California and have been through an 'urban wildfire' I worry immensely for the wildlife and ourselves in the face of climate change.

Photo credit: David Lipkin

Elline Lipkin is currently a Research Scholar with UCLA’s Center for the Study of Women. She also teaches poetry workshops. She is the author of The Errant Thread, selected by Eavan Boland for the Kore Press First Book Award, Girls’ Studies, published by Seal Press, and Girl in a Forest, forthcoming from Trio House Press in 2025.

The Galactic Night Swim

The Galactic Night Swim

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The Galactic Night Swim does not take place at a specific location. It’s a concept; a surreal experience, more than a place. In this swim, we will contemplate the nature of reality, our place in the universe, the eternal questions about consciousness and the spiritual, and our relationship to all living things. Who knew that a swim could do all that for you?

Las Nubes - Clouds
Change-ling

Change-ling

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1955, Little Orchard, Alabama
Lonnie DeWitt didn’t know what the Change was or why Grandma DeWitt seemed to think it was so important to talk about it, the lines on her big brown face creased like freshly tilled soil. Lonnie only knew for certain two truths: that today was his eighteenth birthday and that, like every other poor soul in Little Orchard, Alabama, he wanted out of this town of dead sticks and cotton. 

A Poet Sits Down to Write After a Massacre

A Poet Sits Down to Write After a Massacre

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The dead keep piling up and all I have are poems
to wrap them in. Pockmarks across synagogue walls
are a new font in a familiar language I refuse to utter.
Men have begun again to speak in tongues syntaxed
by phonemes of caliber and clip capacity: diction I
will not assemble into sentences; sounds I cannot make
into words. What color, the stripes being woven like old
narratives into new camp pajamas? How many stars
asterisk prayers into the bluest night? There is no
metaphor for what I cannot abide; no pentameter
for the sound of earth falling from the hands of love
into a freshly-filled grave. My iambs are a pair
of backwards-turned boots in the stirrups of a riderless
horse. We measure the inarticulate grammar of fear
in the steady metronome of newsfeed updates,
punctuate the lulls between carnage with promises
enjambed in the wind. Cover my eyes with verses
if you must. Bribe the ferryman with curses and dust.
A poet’s contract is blood-inked, bone-stamped,
ratified eternal at the frontier where hope kisses rust.