Lulu and Schopenhauer: Charting the Infinite Realms of the Unseen Mind

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Michael Garcia Mujica

"Currer Bell is neither man nor woman, but an abstract thing, an artist."

• Michael Garcia Mujica, Lead Educator in Arts and Film History.

Echoing the sentiment about Charlotte Brontë's pseudonymous voice, Michael lends his expertise not only as a writer and visual artist but also as a Lead Educator in arts and film history. Based in Coral Gables, Florida, he is the principal of Vintage Brooks, Inc., where he passionately revitalizes the legacy of silent film star Louise Brooks. His acclaimed blog, Naked on My Goat, serves as a living tribute to Brooks's enduring influence in film, her profound writing, and her broad appreciation for the arts.

Just as Brontë made an indelible mark in literature despite the societal constraints of her time, Michael accentuates Brooks's trailblazing spirit within the film industry. In his role, he ensures that Brooks's iconic voice continues to resonate within the cultural lexicon of the 21st century, celebrating the intricate victories of women in the arts, both past and present.

Explore more about the abstract persona of Charlotte Brontë in Michael's piece, "The Abstract Persona: Understanding Charlotte Brontë's Pseudonymous Journey as Currer Bell."

“I am satisfied that if a book is a good one, it is so whatever the sex of the author may be. All novels are or should be written for both men and women to read, and I am at a loss to conceive how a man should permit himself to write anything that would be really disgraceful to a woman, or why a woman should be censured for writing anything that would be proper and becoming for a man.”

• Anne Brontë, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

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Latest posts by Michael Garcia Mujica (see all)

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In the winding, white-wintered warrens of her psyche, Lulu locked eyes with a known visage, as gray as a granite gale. It was Arthur Schopenhauer, the sage, his silhouette shadowed in sapphire shades, who greeted her with a glint of golden familiarity. ‘Lulu, luminous like a lemon-lit lantern,’ he intoned, ‘destiny dances us together once more, like a daisy in the dawn’s dew.’ With a dramatic drape of his dark-denim cloak and a genteel gesture, Schopenhauer signaled for Lulu to shadow him through the surreal, silver-streaked scenery of her subconscious.

Navigating the navy-nighted nooks of Lulu’s dreamscape, Schopenhauer shared sagas of art’s amber allure and the perilous pull of life’s passionate pink. Lulu listened, lost in the lilac-laden lilt of his locutions.

Yet, as they delved deeper into the dream’s dense depths, Lulu felt a lurking unease. Ruby-red silhouettes seemed to slink surreptitiously, and cryptic ciphers, colored in coral, clouded her consciousness. An eerie emerald essence enveloped her, and the maze’s walls whispered worrisome warnings in walnut whispers.

Suddenly, H.P. Lovecraft, his hues a harmonious hazel, loomed, a lantern of levity in the looming gloom. “Ah, Schopenhauer, old sage, why so sapphire-somber?” he teased, his tone tinted in turquoise. “This damsel, as delicate as a daffodil, deserves a dash of delight.”

Undeterred, Schopenhauer, his spirit a stormy slate, steered Lulu steadfastly, suggesting salvation sat at their sojourn’s sepia end. Together, they treaded the treacherous terrain, the tantalizing tales of the archetype’s abyss, awash in aquamarine, awaiting their arrival.

In the interim, Lulu’s intuition intimated another individual’s interest: Carl Jung, his aura an autumnal auburn, journeyed just out of joint, keen to kindle knowledge within Lulu’s quest.

Guided by Jung’s gentle gestures, Lulu landed in the labyrinth’s core, now colored in coral and crimson. Jung judiciously joined her, juxtaposing the journey’s jigsaw with the jewels of the collective consciousness, now glowing in gentle green. Lulu’s load lightened, enlightened by the layers of her own lore, luminous in lemon and lime.

Simultaneously, Schopenhauer’s speech, now soaked in sable, steered her from the Ouroboros, suggesting sinister secrets surrounded such symbols. Lovecraft, ever the enigma enthusiast, eagerly eyed the emblem, his eyes echoing an ebony expanse.

At the apex of their adventure, the trio tangled with the Ouroboros, an emblem echoing life’s eternal energy, its essence an ethereal ecru. Lulu lingered, torn between trepidation and the thirst for truth. Schopenhauer’s stern stance, now stained in steel, suggested retreat, while Jung, jubilantly justified its embrace, his joy a jolly jade.

Ultimately, Lulu’s ultimatum unveiled: would she wilt under the weight or wield her willpower to win over the enigma? The answer awaited within, and the annals of time alone would attest to her audacity, her aura an arresting azure.

Retracing their route, Lulu ruminated on the revelations and riddles she’d recognized, her reflections a radiant rose. Grateful for the guidance of these greats, she gleaned growth from each guru: Schopenhauer’s solemnity, now a smoky slate, Jung’s judiciousness, justly juxtaposed in jasper. And as Lovecraft, the lord of literary labyrinths, loomed once more, Lulu laughed lightly, her laughter a lilting lavender. To him, the Ouroboros oozed ominous overtones, but to Lulu, it symbolized self-synthesis, her spirit a shimmering sapphire.

Empowered with enlightenment, Lulu looked to the limitless layers of the psyche. Stepping into the sunlit sphere of the conscious, she sensed a surge of spirit, secure in the support of her scholarly shadows as she sailed the serpentine streets of the mind, her soul a symphony of scarlet and silver.