Cut-up af sang fra en Spotify-playliste

havde en drøm
klokken fire om morgenen
var på vej nordpå
krydsede over Styx’ vande
vandrede langs tavse jernbanespor
til søs på tomme have
med blikket rettet fremad
over stjerne og under ild
holdende min morfars bibel
mod mit bryst

Et år uden sol
tænker at det er et tegn
forandring er kommet
tror jeg ser en anden side
her i slutningen
og for at leve
for at åbne øjnene
må jeg først lukke dem

jeg havde en drøm
klokken fire om morgenen
så vi står tidligt op
kedelen hyler snart på komfuret

inden jeg bæres væk
af grif eller ligvogn
lige før min kærlighed forsvinder
vil jeg holde dig i hånden
hvis jeg kan
og sige
tag hvad du vil fra mig
opløs mig
og hav ingen frygt
jeg venter på dig

 

Tropes, figures and symbols

Why do we fall in love with certain tropes, figures and symbols from literature, movies, e.g. and carry them with us, so that they are passed on to the next generation?

Why do we pass symbolic meaning, figures and tropes from generation to generation?

Can we sense that they are important in regards to our working life and aspirations with regards to writing, thinking, reading and engaging in conversation and thereby hold on to them?

Is it because we always strive to make sense of things in our vicinity, unify things in seamless patterns that please our need for coherence and symmetry?

Is our affinity for certain tropes e.g. connected with our immediate lifeworld and knowledge horizon, for instance pop culture?

Does the figures, symbols and tropes on a deeper level carry meaning that reflect our inner desires or immediate needs?

What is left behind? The tropes, symbols and figures that aren’t malleable enough to adjust to the requirements of new generations?

My mind is a current full of debris

To live a dispassionate and cultured life in the open air of ideas, reading, dreaming and thinking of writing – a life so slow it constantly verges on tedium, but pondered enough never to find itself there. To live this life far from emotions and thought, living it only in the thought of emotions and in the emotion of thoughts. To goldenly stagnate in the sun, like a murky pond surrounded by flowers. To possess, in the shade, that nobility of spirit that makes no demands on life. To be in the whirl of the worlds like dust of flowers, sailing through the afternoon air on an unknown wind and falling, in the torpor of dusk, wherever it falls, lost among larger things. To be this with a sure understanding, neither happy nor sad, grateful to the sun for its brilliance and to the stars for their remoteness. To be no more, have no more, want no more… The music of the hungry beggar, the song of the blind man, the relic of the unknown wayfarer, the tracks in the desert of the camel without burden or destination…

The disquiet man, Fernando Pessoa

pianist kok jockey

Lyden fra et klaver.
Pianistens fingre
mærker lufttrykkene
fra de nedadgående tangenter.
Duften af et måltid.
Kokken mærker
håndleddet værke
af den hidsige pisken.
Vrinsk fra en hest.
Jockeyen mærker
den varme flanke der hæver
og sænker sig.
Tanker om en savnet, elsket.
Et menneske mærker
salt dunet overlæbe

To live: always dare to swim the open sea, never fear the lack of reference points

“The Holy Spirit thus proceeds, absolutely speaking: it leaves stabilities forever, including those of the balanced movement of circular history, to risk itself in the unstable motivity of deviations from equilibrium. That means that it never stops being exposed. It evolves and travels. Whence its eccentration, outside the stabilities of the first two persons; whence knowledge, whence time. Whence learning.”

– The Troubadour of Knowledge (1997), Michel Serres