Faun

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.