Faun

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