Faun

  Claude Monet hela världen är en glasskål och himlen buktar sig över åkrarna  han bestämde sig en dag för att promenera  över stigarna av röd jord mellan sädesfälten de mörkgröna skogarna kom han på villovägar vid glasskålens kant  fälten lyssnande till vårtbitarna axen före skörd solen skärvor av månen den blå himlen  skymtande sin egen spegelbild i glaset det kortaste av ögonblick  skillnader och likheter såg den andras ögon vidgas i gräsets suddiga stjärnor  snabbare än ljudet och närmare jorden långsammare  snö mot den varma jorden - the whole world a glass bowl, the sky curves over the fields. One day he decided to walk along the paths of red earth between the grain fields and the dark green forests, where he lost his way at the glass bowl’s edge. the corn’s ears listen to the crickets, the stalks before harvest, the sun, fragments of the moon the sky for the briefest of moments he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the glass seeing the ...

  Monet, Grainstacks, White Frost Effect. 1889.   Jean-Paul Sartre asserted not only that reality is subjective  but that no objective reality exists at all . For him, objectivity was not just a mistake but a complete illusion. This radical subjectivity entails a total absence of objective meaning, leading us to a kind of existential angst . This is not a new idea. I guess Shakespeare at least brushed upon this thought by the end of the 16th century. Did it make him dizzy? Surely, it is more than just a common fear of death Hamlet expresses in his monologue? In any case, it is interesting how concepts can be linked, how a distinct concept like subjectivism can imply meaninglessness. What do this line of thought create? Hesitant, amazed at the implications of this thought line, time and again on stages throughout history To sleep, perchance to Dream; aye, there's the rub, For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coi...

Gustave Caillebotte Sketches  that explore different semi-fictionalized narratives delving into various modes of memory.  The narratives explore the nuanced boundary between memory and imagination, navigating through trauma before culminating in memory and personal identity. 1. Remembering and imagining The question of how to distinguish between remembering and imagining is importantly ambiguous. On the one hand, we sometimes remember but do so in a way that is in some sense inadequate; in such cases, we naturally say that we are “only imagining”.  The question can thus be taken to concern the distinction between cases in which the subject remembers successfully and cases in which he remembers  unsuccessfully .  Excerpt  from Memory /  Remembering and imagining ,  Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy .    "Damned nonsense," he muttered to himself and pulled out a band with small brown beads that he began to finger.    "Excu...

Vilhelm Hammershøi,  Solstråler "You should build a memory palace," she said one day as we sat discussing personal matters. It was eight in the evening in Sweden and late morning at her place. "What's that?" I asked. "Like a fixed building or place one returns to in memory... I'll send a book," she replied after a moment of thought. "Okay," I responded, feeling tired. It had been a long day. This was many years ago, and oddly enough, that advice and, to some extent, the book did change my life. It's an overused phrase, that something changes one's life, but the book that eventually arrived was like a key to, well, my memory palace. The book was titled The Art of Memory  by Frances Yates. Building my memory palace wasn't easy or quick, and maintaining it isn't simple either. Yet, it allowed me to construct a powerful reservoir within consciousness, functioning as an inner layer of reality. In short, it enabled me to store a...

Lesser Ury, Hochbahnhof Bülowstraße, 1922 Below is a brief prose fragment from a story I conceived this summer.  He woke up and sat up in bed. His pulse was racing, throbbing in his ears like drumbeats. For a moment, he just sat there, clutching the blanket and staring ahead. He did nothing but try to calm his breathing. The shadows behind the blinds from the tree branches outside. He didn't really know who he was. But eventually, he rose heavily and looked at the alarm clock. Half past two. He swore. He knew exactly who he was. As often happens when he woke up this way, he became wide awake. He put on his bathrobe and sat down at the computer. Sometimes, reading something on the Internet helped. But his heart continued to pound hard, and the computer's blue light gave him a headache. The Swedish-Danish wars in the 15th century and the bark beetles' spread in northern Uppland didn't help either, so he pulled up the blinds. It was still dark outside the window. The light...

  Evaporating locomotive at night, 1896, Hermann Pleuer (1863–1911) ”… we are sometimes inclined to say that some of the thoughts, decisions and actions that we undertake are not really one’s own …” Source: SEP What does this mean? Authenticity, in its strongest sense, implies being of unquestionable origin or creator. In a slightly weaker sense, it means being akin to the original or serving as a credible representation. When we declare something as authentic, we affirm that it is exactly what it claims to be. These are potent words. If one is of unquestionable origin or creator, they possess something of indisputable value. However, if one merely resembles the original, their value diminishes. They are no longer the creator but a mere semblance of one. If one lacks authenticity entirely, they are devoid of creative essence and fail even as a credible representation or likeness of the original. They become mundane. What does it mean to be oneself or akin to the original? When o...

We sit together the mountain and I until only the mountain  remains. (Fragment) Li Bai (700 AD).

Nocturne. James Abbott McNeil When the space of interiority becomes a guiding authority, the individual must detect and distinguish central impulses, feelings and wishes from ones that are less central or conflict with one’s central motives. In other words, interiority must be divided into what is at the core and what is peripheral. In this picture, the measure of one’s actions is whether they spring from and express essential aspects of one’s identity or whether they come from a peripheral place.   Rousseau’s Confessions  --- So if intellect is something divine compared to the human being, then a life of the intellect is also a divine life in comparison with a human life. But that doesn’t mean we have to follow the motto and think human, since we’re human, or ‘think on mortal things since we’re mortal’. No. We should transcend our mortality as much as possible and do everything we can to live our life by the very best element within us. Yes, it may be small in bulk, but in it...

The Monk by the Sea, Caspar David Friedrich   If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: if you pardon, we will mend: And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call; So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends. Commentary We all have times which afterwards felt deeply special. These  stanzas have a special meaning in my life. What is Puck talking about? For me, it is a state of mind. A commentry about reentry into ordinary felt time. Exit special time. We offend shadows, perhaps? The stanzas sometimes haunt me.

Isaac Levitan ja g satt på en stenbumling och drack kaffe  med jordiga händer  skogen var  vindstilla idag gamle döden flinade  bakom en stubbe jag blev sur ville vara själv  packade ner termosen  hejade  och gick  * natt med stjärnor över det frostiga fältet visset gräs och kurviga landsvägar en trött kråka med sliten blick satt på en stolpe och tittade på mig om jag skulle falla ihop och dö skulle han slippa vara hungrig istället stannade jag i den frusna leran och sneglade upp dit jag inte nådde frostiga stjärnor   var inget för oss inget för mig ©  Anders Enochsson  2021

   Starry Night, Jean-François Millet Turning and twisting inside the hot room, my glass of juice spills on the floor and white linen rages like the Northern Sea while snow falls on the black garden outside the window.   Falling snow mutes sounds outside, and when a shell explode a couple of blocks away the shockwave multiplies into her spicy skin and primal harmonies as we swallow the intoxicating drink. An electric bass is tuned on somewhere and someone knocks heavily on the door.   My feet hit the sticky bits and pieces on the floor as you enter with the coldness of the carbonic acid snow of Mars in your Afghan fur. I say I heard you were killed and you  look dead pale to me when you spill your mind about the blood rimmed tide acoming and the matchstick men  who want to separate chap and animal. Not even warm cinnamon, spiced wine can bring back the color on your costly features as you ask me to follow into t...

Claude Monet Deeper and deeper into the web we come, until we reach the centre; here we rest while gnats hover like Zeppelins over our subterranean bodies. My body howls for a drink and the steamy centre makes us drunk of fluid and dew juice this is our blissful days: the rumble of the eastern drum concerns not us, the noise does not reach us. Our sour beat and sweetened Ayres, facilitate the hand of Oberon, until mere utterances are drowned in the growl of burnt firewood; plain noise, simple imitations, wipes us out ©    Anders Enochsson 2009

The Falling Rocket, James Abbot Whistler the gaslights burning lights of cobbled streets  she awakes in the darkened bedroom and screams stares into the starless ceiling listening to the snoring stranger beside her the moon reveals his sleeping face  she knows him he is sheltered but insane the beat of life before the wolf took him she is not his wife anymore  neptune roaring over the sea the bearded man big as the cliffs  with a trident in his hand  lantern she hurries down the beach  past echoes abandoned machine gun stations and finds me by the rotten seaweed the stench  i feel the map of tiny blood vessels  under her skin  as our breaths mingle  and august remains  ©   Anders Enochsson 2021  

    Isaac Levitan i was strolling the forest one evening as green shadows deepened into black following deer and blackbirds on my way   one june evening i met ladybirds in waiting subterranean bugs upon a hill passing junipers all in green i was that deepening night and   you were there in the marshes  heron spread her wings hissed and called out shadows turned and before night i came to you   one june evening i met ladybirds in waiting subterranean bugs upon a hill following deer and blackbirds on my way     © Anders Enochsson 2020