Man only escapes from the laws of this world in lightning flashes. Instants where everything stands still, instants of contemplation, of pure intuition, of mental void, of acceptance of the moral void. It is through such instants that he is capable of the supernatural. (11) As I read through Simone Weil’s Gravity and Grace, first … Continue reading The Supernatural Terror Of Simone Weil As Fiona Apple Fetches The Bolt Cutters.
The world is weird. The sun spills light as though it has all the colors to burn what is dead and empty into luminous greens and yellows, while a pool of water adds its aesthetic by reflecting and shimmering the madness of light and color. And all of this is made because the Netflix inside … Continue reading The World Is Weird.
I shiver with rapture; I soar on the wings of sudden joy! O Pan, O Pan, appear to us, sea-rover, from the stony ridge of snow-beaten Cyllene. King, dancemaker for the gods, come, so that joining with us you may set on the Nysian and the Cnosian steps, your self-taught dances. Now I want to … Continue reading Time For Dancing With Myself, Pan Dancing With His Sweet Self, Trees Dancing In The Streets And The Great Sacrifice To Keep The World Turning And Spinning And Leaping.
Nymphs and Satyr as painted by William-Adolphe Bouguereau and dated 1873. My eyes were reeling with such images lost in my forest, but having found my way out of branches and roots and the winding, gyring paths of Dr. Seuss and Quantum Mechanics, I’m back home to cut a filet of elk into stew pieces … Continue reading Thinking About The Rona While Cooking Viltkött Bourguignonne And Talking To Hannibal Lecter, Agent Smith And Luis P. Villarreal Who Are All Listening To Nina Simone Sing “Black Swan.”
Look close at a tree. I mean, really close. A tree is really, when you look close a bit alien, a bit other than you, if you’re human, and then again there’s something familiar looking back out at you. Other and you. Rooted to place and branching above, its skin is alive and revealing of … Continue reading Thinking About The God Pan While Taking A Walk With Arthur Machen, Nick Cave, Genesis, Sean Carroll And The Cat In The Hat As A Deer Stock Back Home Bubbles.
In Rousseau’s Fifth Walk, he writes about time spent on a small island in the middle of Lake Bienne in Switzerland. On the island there is only a single house, but a large, pleasant and comfortable one which, like the island, belongs to Bern Hospital and in which a tax collector lives with his family … Continue reading An Island In The Middle Of A Lake, And Yes, I’m Thinking About Rousseau And Bachelard And Jung, While Contemplating Roasted Salmon And W.G. Sebald’s “A Place In The Country” As Pan Appears With James Hillman And A Nymph And Everything Stops.
How does a journey begin? Well, with a walk. A church and a cemetery affords the beginning. Bare branches on the edge of spring with stubs of brown-green grass and a path of graded small stones. An avenue of trees really, as we look down the path past grave markers and towards the dwellings of … Continue reading A Walk And A Reverie With Apples, Cheese And Cognac Or How To Embrace The Pandemic And Meet Pan.
It’s good to think of Hannibal as we leave the Winter Solstice behind. Well, at least remember the Great Stag who witnesses Björkar. Birches. Member of the Betulaceae family. Deciduous hardwood. Dropping what is no longer needed. The falling away of what no longer fits. Dark horizontal lines on white, paper-thin plates. You can peel … Continue reading What Does The Great Stag See From The Forest At The Turn of A New Year? Björkar, Björk And Calf Liver Served With Fried Egg and Potatoes, While Contemplating The Good Resonance Of All Things.
Boulders are everywhere on Nacka. Granite boulders left by retreating glaciers or shaped out of bedrock by wind and rain. Formed out of volcanic activity and millions of years of pressure turning stone into a metamorphic tale out of Ovid. Walking the forest back in August, I come upon them and they come upon me. … Continue reading My Favorite Swedish Boulders, Seeing Faeries, Mycorrhizal Networks, Forests Thinking, And Roasting Pork Belly With Mark Rothko’s Color Fields While Dancing Tango And Listening To Astor Piazolla.
Boulders and lakes and forests, oh my. Långsjön calls me each morning to circle its depth of sky and water and trees. A walk of ritual and greeting with the light ever pouring out green and blue into the air. And in the middle, slowly turns a white platform from which you may dive into the … Continue reading “Ay, There’s The Rub” Or Hamlet Dreams Of Pork Belly, Marinade, Northern Forests And Charles Mingus.