Faun

  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...