Wednesday, 7 April 2021

Relational Mirroring

The world, so quantum physics tells us, is fundamentally made up of relations and events rather than permanent substances, it is better understood as a web of interactions and relations rather than objects. It, the world, and everything in it, really only exists because it is defined by the interactions and relations which everything has with everything else. Without these relations and interactions everything or anything would not exist because it would not have an effect. If something does not have an effect it can safely be regarded as non-existent. There is nothing that exists in itself, independently from anything else.

This is not only true of the, admittedly enigmatic world of quantum physics, it also holds true in our everyday life and the relations we humans have with each other. We only feel that we are truly living if we see us mirrored in the eyes of someone else, that is, to be recognized, to be noted, to be having an effect. Humans, being social herd animals, long to be recognized and mirrored by the herd, their fellow animals and even being falsely mirrored and only fragmentally pictured seems to be better than not being seen at all, of not having an effect. If one has no effect on anyone or anything, one might just as well not exist. We only truly live in a relational web, in a never-ending game of mirrors. 

Sunday, 21 March 2021

Memory and The Suspension of Disbelief

 Memory and The Suspension of Disbelief

I am what I am. And this is mainly due to what I remember.

Remembrance, memory, is the main ingredient that gives my life continuity and perspective. Memory provides the glue to bind together all the myriads of fragments of the millions of moments in my life that otherwise I would not be able to comprehend as a continuum. 

Out of this mosaic I construct a coherent picture of myself and my life. Naturally the picture that is thus painted is singular and individual and may not even be true, but it serves as the picture, my picture, of myself, of what I am and of how I see myself in the context of my surroundings.

Memory functions as my own individual little time machine that enables me to become aware of my personal history, my joys and sorrows, my successes and failures that all combine to form that what is Me.

This story of Me can only be fully enjoyed, though, if I adopt the attitude of a theatergoer, a reader of tales or watcher of films, the attitude all storytellers rely on: For the duration of the show, suspend all disbelief.

Monday, 15 March 2021


Staying at home, 
reflecting on the diversity of life, 
on bacterial infection of the knees, 
on ghostly ghosting images of metamorphosing half-beings, 
marveling in repetition and variation, 
delighting in encounters of transitional images of reflections of self and others, 
erupting in creational scribbling bursts of endlessly repetitive circumscriptions of flowers. 

There is never the thing but the version of the thing. 
There is always only a fragment of a fragment of a fragment. 
There is variation. 
There is life.

                                                      (robert faeth)


Thing 1 and Thing 2 are similar but not the same. 

Thing 1 has at least one property that is different from Thing 2.

A variation is a different form of something, a variant, a transformation of the melody or theme and in series of variations diversity, development and evolution, thus maintenance of life, is made possible.

It seems that whether or not variation would exist in reality is fundamental. 


Wednesday, 10 March 2021

My flowers are reflected In your mind

My flowers are reflected

In your mind

As you are reflected in your glass.

When you look at them,

There is nothing in your mind

Except the reflections

Of my flowers.

But when I look at them

I see only the reflections

In your mind,

And not my flowers. 


                                 (from Wallace Stevens’ (1879-1955)The Florist Wears Knee-Breeches)


Thursday, 18 February 2021

Blue Hour


Blue Hour

In this, our world, blue is not such a common color. In fact it is a rare one. Yes, the sky, should it be free of gray clouds, is blue and then it is an overwhelming sight. And yes, so are waters, rivers, oceans when the blue sky is reflected in them. But as a naturally occurring pigment it is rare. In consequence only a small portion of plants bloom in blue and only a small number of animals use blue as their distinctive coat color. They all have to revert to tricks of chemistry or physics of light (structural, reflecting, refracting, light-bending surface of butterfly wings for example) to achieve this special blue look in the eye of the beholder.

Apart from means of appearance for us humans the color blue has developed, as did other colors, a very specific transcendental meaning. 

Blue is both invigorating and soothing. It harmonizes, it is symbol of the invisible, it delights and makes us happy with its richness and manifold nuances. Blue is a metaphor for expanding our boundaries. It gives wings to our spirit and it makes the soul loose itself in reverie. It is a color closely related to the feeling of longing and sorrow, of dreams, melancholy and magic. Blue is the color of contemplation, the color of internalization. 

The color blue even enters the realm of time in the Blue Hour, Die Blaue Stunde, a very fine hour, an intake of breath, a time, a small break between day and night, an exceptional condition in the everyday banality. It is an hour of secrets and enchantments, a time where borders begin to blur.

Blue is a mirror of the mysterious dephts and infinite distances… the color of the outmost locations and of the last straight lines which are closed to life…“ (Ernst Jünger in „Das abenteuerliche Herz“, The Adventurous Heart)

“We love to contemplate blue“ said Goethe, “not because it advances to us but it draws us after it“.

Goethe was just one of so many others who fell under the spell of this very specific light-wavelength of 435 Nanometers, which our visual senses interpret as BLUE.

Countless painters have payed homage to the color blue. There is the Chagall-blue which we often see in glass stained windows, there is the blue period of Picasso, there is the German expressionistic artist group Der blaue Reiter, there is the painting of Kandinsky which gave name to that group. Kandinsky praises blue as a heavenly color. French artist Yves Klein created a blue which hence is called Yves Klein-blue. 

Derek Jarman, in his last film “Blue“, already the mark of death on him, said that blue “is always hope“.

Blue plays an important role in religion, it symbolizes heaven, the all-embracing and protecting sky. The cloak of Mother Mary, the Madonna, the queen of the skies, is blue. So is the coat of Odin, German god of storms and wars. Blue is the color of godly might, not only in Christianity but long before that for example, in the Egypt of the Pharaohs.

There are gems which play an important role in the rich symbolism of blue, mainly lapiz lazuli or the blue saphire which are cherished in many cultures for their medicinal and healing powers.

I myself am a huge fan of the cerulean. Blue is the color of the sky as we imagine it when we hear or speak the word “Sky“. Blue has this quality of inducing contemplation and the more intense the color gets the more it awakens in us this longing for pureness and -maybe- even transcendency.

Blue, more than any other color, is the color of the artist, the poet, the musician, the thinker and philosopher.

So, for today here are some blue snippets and pieces I happened to find, all concerning, dealing with, telling of, this strange indefinable elusive blue feeling we get when Blue enters our vision:

Hans Arp (1886-1966), important French-German artist of the twentieth-century avant garde, a pioneer of abstract art, in an excerpt from one of his poem “Singing Blue“: 

It rings

it swooshes

it reverberates

it echoes

it sprays

it scents

and becomes devoutly singing Blue.

The Blue withers to light.

Novalis (1772-1801), German poet and philosopher, important voice of the German romantic movement, created the image of „Die Blaue Blume“, a magic, rare blue flower and thus gave an embodiment to the movement. Romanticism for Novalis was not a sentimental, nebulous, kitschy sentiment but a romanticised poetic longing for a world in which everything is a continuum of interacting connectedness and a means of understanding the world in its totality by connecting seemingly disparate opposites in the process of romanticising, the common with the extraordinary, the limited with infinity. “The world has to be romanticised, only then one re-discovers the original sense of it. Romanticising is nothing but a qualitative potentialisation.“

“… The youth lay restless on his bed and remembered the tale of the stranger. Not the riches have woken this insatiable longing in me, he said to himself, all this greed is far from my mind, but the Blue Flower I long to see. (Die Blaue Blume sehn’ ich mich zu erblicken…). It incessantly stays in my mind and I cannot think and write poems anymore“. (Novalis, „Heinrich von Ofterdingen“)

Paul Claudel (1868-1955), French poet and writer, picks up this image in his poem “The Delphinium":

… The big blue flower says: Have I not 

succeeded in bringing

from the depth of the blackest sapphire 

this fire purer than snow? …

Georg Trakl (1887-1914), Austrian expressionist poet, writes in his poem „Kindheit“ (Youth):

... Und in heiliger Bläue läuten leuchtende Schritte fort.

I wish to be able to convey this wonderful phrase to readers who are not familiar with the German language, but I cannot. There is such a grand melody in it. A rough translation would be: “And in holy Blue luminous steps chime away…“

Elke Laske-Schüler (1869-1945), German-Jewish poet, in one of her texts, about the color blue:

… one has to look for it, it blooms preferentially inside the human being. And he who has found it, still delicate and fragile, a blue amazement, an ecstatic looking up, shall care for his heavenly flower.

Gottfried Benn (1886-1956), German doctor, essayist and poet, in his poem „Die Blaue Stunde“ (The Blue Hour):

… Ich trete in die dunkelblaue Stunde -

da ist der Flur, die Kette schließt sich zu

und nun im Raum ein rot auf einem Munde

und eine Schale später Rosen - Du! …

… Du bist so weich, du gibst von etwas Kunde,

von einem Glück aus Sinken und Gefahr

in einer blauen, dunkelblauen Stunde

und wenn sie ging, weiß keiner, ob sie war.  …

… I enter in this dark blue hour -

there is the hall, the chain closes

and now in the room a red on a mouth

and a bowl of late roses - You! - …

… You are so soft, you tell of something,

of a bliss derived of sinking and of danger

in a blue, a dark blue hour

and when it is gone no one knows if it was …

Maria Müller-Gögler (1900-1987), German poet and teacher, in her poem „Blaue Stunde“:

Abends, wenn die Ufer blauen,

goldumsäumt auf silbergrauen

Fluten ferne Segel gehn,

aus den offnen Fenstern Frauen

von den schweren, sommerlauen

Lüften weich umschmeichelt spähn,

schwankend zwischen Wunsch und Grauen

in die fremde Ferne schauen,

bleibt die Zeit verwunschen stehn,

bis im Schwarzen alle grauen,

silberzarten, zauberblauen,

süßen Töne untergehn.

In the evening, when the shores turn blue,

and on silver grey floods bordered in gold 

far away sails go,

out of open windows women,

softly caressed by heavy summer blue airs 

peer out into the wide distance,

looking, wavering between wish and horror,

into the foreign distance,

then time stands enchantedly still

until inside the black all grey,

silver soft, magic blue,

sweet tunes vanish.

And as an ending line a poem by Hans Magnus Enzensberger (*1929), German author, writer, essayist, poet, publisher and translator):

Die Visite

Als ich aufsah von meinem leeren Blatt,

stand der Engel im Zimmer.

Ein ganz gemeiner Engel,

vermutlich unterste Charge.

Sie können sich gar nicht vorstellen,

sagte er, wie entbehrlich Sie sind.

Eine einzige unter fünfzehntausend Schattierungen

der Farbe Blau, sagte er,

fällt mehr ins Gewicht der Welt

als alles, was Sie tun oder lassen,

Ich sah es an seinen hellen Augen, er hoffte

auf Widerspruch, auf ein langes Ringen.

Ich rührte mich nicht. Ich wartete,

bis er verschwunden war, schweigend.

The Visitation

When I looked up from my empty page,

there stood an angel in the room.

A most common angel,

probably undermost batch.

You can’t imagine,

said he, how dispensable you are.

A single one amongst the fifteen thousand shadings 

of the color blue, he said,

matters more in the weight of the world

as all what you could ever do or not do,

I saw it in his light eyes, he hoped

for contradiction, for a long struggle.

I did not move. I waited, silently,

until he had vanished.

Wednesday, 17 February 2021



I am glad you stayed with me. 
When I sit at the seaside and watch the waves 
it is beautiful. 
And when it rains and I have to sit on the terrace to watch the waves 
it is beautiful in a different way. 
Life is beautiful and living is an enormous thing. 
Dying is nothing. 
Living is the harder part and far more sensual.
                                                                  (Robert Faeth)

A Mind of Winter


excerpt from Wallace Stevens’ “The Snowman”:

One must have a mind of winter...

... and not to think 

Of any misery in the sound of the wind, 

In the sound of a few leaves, 

Which is the sound of the land 

Full of the same wind 

That is blowing in the same bare place 

For the listener, who listens in the snow, 

And, nothing himself, beholds 

Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

                                                      (Wallace Stevens, 1879-1955)

Tuesday, 16 February 2021

... when to be and delight to be seemed to be one ...

A quote from Leonardo da Vinci and excerpts from poems by Wallace Stevens:

Learn how to see. Realize that everything connects to everything else.

                                      (Leonardo da Vinci, 1452-1519)

... The partaker partakes of that which changes him. 

The child that touches takes character from the thing, 

The body, it touches. 

The captain and his men 

Are one and the sailor and the sea are one. ...

                                (out of “It Must Change" by Wallace Stevens, 1879-1955)

... But he remembered the time when he stood alone, 

When to be and delight to be seemed to be one, 

Before the colors deepened and grew small. ...

                                (out of “ANGLAIS MORT À FLORENCE" by Wallace Stevens, 1879-1955)

Monday, 15 February 2021

It is never the thing but the version of the thing


Dry Birds Are Fluttering in Blue Leaves

It is never the thing but the version of the thing: 

The fragrance of the woman not her self, 

Her self in her manner not the solid block, 

The day in its color not perpending time, 

Time in its weather, our most sovereign lord, 

The weather in words and words in sounds of sound. 

These devastations are the divertissements 

Of a destroying spiritual that digs-a-dog, 

Whines in its hole for puppies to come see, 

Springs outward, being large, and, in the dust, 

Being small, inscribes ferocious alphabets, 

Flies like a bat expanding as it flies, 

Until its wings bear off night’s middle witch; 

And yet remains the same, the beast of light, 

Groaning in half-exploited gutturals 

The need of its element, the final need 

Of final access to its element— 

Of access like the page of a wiggy book, 

Touched suddenly by the universal flare 

For a moment, a moment in which we read and repeat 

The eloquences of light’s faculties.          

                                                                                    (Wallace Stevens, 1879-1955)

Only as a child we live through moments of true revelation, true originality, true first times. This is the time when we discover the world and for a while everything we experience is new, astounding, surprising, exciting and truly baffling.

Then, as time moves on and we get older and more used to this strange world we have been thrown into, things start to repeat themselves. We discover patterns, we create categories and pigeon-holes, we sample, classify and structure and weave out of this complexity a cloth of understanding in order to make this world comprehendible and endurable. Out of new, possibly frightening things we create less frightening, easily recognizable and manageable patterns.

This is the time when the world for most begins to loose its magic. Only a few preserve a childish sense of wonder. But if you do this, then the world never stops to surprise and everything, a flower, a landscape, an object, is not just something which falls under the category flower, landscape or object but is an individual manifestation out of the great variety of flowers, landscapes and objects.

The world is a conglomeration, a cumulation of varieties. There might not be such a difference between two flowers on a meadow but if you look closer there is all the difference. And most of times the difference lies within yourself. It is you who makes one flower differ from the other because you allow it to differ, you allow it to become an individual and not a category.

“It is never the thing but the version of the thing.“

Monday, 1 February 2021


I am in transition.

I am aside. 

I am not at the heart of things anymore.

I am not in life.

In summer I shall feel again.

In summer I shall feel what is good.

In summer I shall feel what is beautiful.

In summer I shall feel.

Over time everything is slowing down, 

even oblivion.

(Robert Faeth)

Sunday, 29 November 2020

I Wonder If My Ghosts Would Have Known

In everyone’s life there are moments when one holds still, as if suddenly being aware and listening to whispers of the past which seem to ask: Is this what you wanted when you set out, when you decided to go along a path which then let you, inexorably, to exactly what and where you are now. Is this what you then dreamed of, what you desired to become?

And I dare say that probably for most of us the answer is no. It certainly is so in my case. I certainly had different plans, different ideas, different concepts even of what life in general and my life should be.

Am I in any way disappointed, in life, in myself, in fate? The answer is a clear and strong: No!

Yes, not everything worked out the way I would have wanted it to. There have been failures, there have been misunderstandings, there have been losses and gains, there have been dramas, there have been grievances, joys, frriendships, encounters, memories. And in the end it all sums up to: There had been a lot to learn on this way. 

And this is the real gain: The gift of learning and understanding.

My life, my art, all it ever was is an endless lesson. It never stopped, not then, not now.

Sometimes I no longer feel like an artist, I even have the feeling that this is a thing of the past. I was never the artist anyway, someone who makes art to make a difference, someone who points out socio-political grievances, for example, an active, socially active member of society. A lot of what I do is nice to look at, it has, in terms of formal aesthetics, a good composition structure, but it has no social relevance, not even an innovative character. I still use the form and colour vocabulary of the last two centuries and only have a rudimentary philosophy about life and what art should and could say about it.

But I enjoy the formal aesthetic, I like the beautiful. It brings structure and a frame into the surrounding chaos, small islands of happiness, often short-lived, often diffuse, flickering.

What brings me comfort is that I have been lucky enough to experience and recognize beautiful things in life, I know what beauty is, I know the Good exists.

I have been given the gift to share a small portion in the wonder of the fundamental fact of artistic creation: The putting in place of something where otherwise there would be nothing. I have not been an artist for many, the transformative effect of my art has not worked for many, sometimes only just for myself. I have been my own artist, my own transformative power. Sometimes that is enough.

Monday, 27 July 2020


One of my most treasured fabrics of life are friendships. They are the most cherished and the most difficult to care for and to maintain.

I’ve found that one can only be in a friendship - a functioning, healthy, satisfying, rewarding friendship - when one is firmly rooted in the autarkic strength of one’s own being. Yet friendships have a tendency to loosen, weaken or even uprooting this autarchy and all of a sudden the friendship, up until now satisfying, cozy, joyful, exciting, becomes toxic. 

For a while now I grew accustomed to a person, a friendship developed. Things were nice, comfortable, satisfactory, exciting, rewarding - and all I wanted was to continue in this way. 

And all of a sudden nothing is the same again. Literally from one day to the other I find I have been ghosted, the person whom I thought of as my friend is not here anymore, everything has changed and I am left to ask myself: how could it have come to this? 

And I don’t find an answer. Which is really the hard part. Not to be able to solve the riddle, not having an answer. As much as I look, as much as I ponder every move, every snippet of communication, I am unable to detect any logical, rational element which might explain this sudden dramatic change.  

What I feel is pain. It is intense. It is a pain, very much the same as I felt in the past when a partner relationship had been terminated. The difference is that then I knew what led to the breaking up and the pain I felt then was not welcome but understood, it had a causal explanation. The ghosting causes the same pain but lacks the explanation and is therefore so much harder to endure. 

The first impulse with me usually is: Is it something I did, is it my fault? It must have been me! Yet, I have learned that this is not always true. 

I hope that one day there will be an explanation given to me and meanwhile I hover between acceptance /respect of my friend’s decision, as incomprehensible it might be to me, being grateful for the time I have been given (because it really has been an enjoyable time) and putting into question the value of that time, now seemingly meaningless and belittled by incomprehensibility and disappointment.

I try to move on. 

*** if you had similar experiences, feel free to share them with me***

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Sunday, 21 June 2020

Poem - ‘13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird’ by Wallace Stevens

Wallace Stevens (1879 - 1955)*

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

Among twenty snowy mountains, 

The only moving thing 

Was the eye of the blackbird.


I was of three minds, 

Like a tree 

In which there are three blackbirds.


The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds. 

It was a small part of the pantomime.


A man and a woman 

Are one. 

A man and a woman and a blackbird 

Are one.

I do not know which to prefer, 

The beauty of inflections 

Or the beauty of innuendoes, 

The blackbird whistling 

Or just after.


Icicles filled the long window 

With barbaric glass. 

The shadow of the blackbird 

Crossed it, to and fro. 

The mood 

Traced in the shadow 

An indecipherable cause.


O thin men of Haddam, 

Why do you imagine golden birds? 

Do you not see how the blackbird 

Walks around the feet 

Of the women about you?


I know noble accents 

And lucid, inescapable rhythms; 

But I know, too, 

That the blackbird is involved 

In what I know.


When the blackbird flew out of sight, 

It marked the edge 

Of one of many circles.

At the sight of blackbirds 

Flying in a green light, 

Even the bawds of euphony 

Would cry out sharply.


He rode over Connecticut 

In a glass coach. 

Once, a fear pierced him, 

In that he mistook 

The shadow of his equipage 

For blackbirds.


The river is moving. 

The blackbird must be flying.


It was evening all afternoon. 

It was snowing 

And it was going to snow. 

The blackbird sat 

In the cedar-limbs.

*Wallace Stevens (October 2, 1879 – August 2, 1955) was an American modernist poet. He was born in Reading, Pensylvania and educated at Harvard and then New York Law School, and then spent most of his life working as an executive for an insurance company in Hartford, Connecticut. He won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry for his Collected Poems in 1955.

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Thoughts (and images) on ‘13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird’ by Wallace Stevens

Thoughts (and images) on ‘13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird’ by Wallace Stevens 

This is a first person poem about a poet's observation and contemplations viewing a blackbird. 

Each stanza is an explanation of a new way in which this blackbird has been perceived

First, he writes about his physical perception of the blackbird as an observer. Then, he writes about his mental processes during this time.

The poem seems to be inspired by the Haiku, a very short Japanese poetic form.

Each stanza is like a polaroid snapshot.

Sight is the dominant perceptual modality. The poems are almost cinematic.

You're not supposed to understand the poem, you're invited to feel it (sensations).

The poem moves from nature to human society and back to nature in a circle.


  • The first stanza could be read as an introduction to the entire poem and a preparatory exercise for the intellect. It is also a transition from the observer's perception to the blackbird's perception. An image of one lone blackbird among twenty snow capped mountains is conjured, the only moving thing in this majestic landscape still life is the eye of the bird. In the first stanza all is about perception and perspective. In a tranquil unmoving landscape the eye of a blackbird is the only moving thing and brings momentum into the image. First the landscape is in the mind of the beholder, then perspective shifts to the view of the blackbird. The blackbird seems to stand for the Idea or thought. The snow on the mountains is motionless, not falling.


  • The second stanza is a simile of the working, conflicted mind, of different views, the self as of three minds, the tree is the mind in which 3 ideas or perspectives sit. This is the first time the connection is made between seeing the blackbird and being metaphorically the blackbird, being oneself plus the idea of a blackbird equals the new I: oneself/blackbird. Philosophically, it could be said that by seeing or thinking about another being through its eyes one could know it, know its perception of reality. This leads into the second matter that the poem addresses: The poet says that he knows himself as being a poet and that it is a part of himself as a person. However, since he also knows the blackbird, that perception makes the blackbird a part of him as well. This connection is what goes into the conclusion  “a  man and a woman and a blackbird are one."


  • The third stanza whirls the blackbird (the idea) about, brings chaos, movement, changes and phantasy. The season changes from winter to autumn. A pantomime is a performance told through bodily and facial movements, so each movement and gesture is communication. If the bird is a part of the pantomime, it suggests that the blackbird, the idea, is also a part of life's performance.


  • The fourth stanza makes the Zen Buddhist point that “all things are one thing“. At this time, the connection is made that in seeing and knowing the blackbird it becomes a part of oneself.


  • The fifth stanza discusses the differences between statement (inflections) and implication (innuendoes), before whistling or after.


  • The sixth stanza is a still portrait in vivid emotional movement and the poet observer as he watches the blackbird fly by his icy window which again brings movement into the picture.


  • The seventh stanza might be a suggestion to the male part of our species who are thin (maybe of shallow mind), do not trust and build too much upon flittery ideas of farflung, unrealistic golden birds and rather do as the women, who have realism and realistic ordinary blackbirds at their feet to ground them in reality. Haddam is a suburban town in Connecticut close to Hartford where Stevens lived.


  • The eighth stanza might be a reference to the poet himself (I know noble accents and lucid, inescapable rhythms = I know how to produce nice poems) and that he knows that himself and the idea are inseparable (are one). At this time, he makes the connection that in seeing and knowing the blackbird it becomes a part of himself.


  • In the ninth stanza, the universe is depicted as a series of concentric circles extending outward to infinity. The eye is the first circle; the horizon which it forms is the second and so on. The circle is that through which we see and the limit of what we see. So if the blackbird marks the edge of many circles it flies to the limit of one’s knowledge.


  • The tenth stanza calls poets bawds of euphony, manufacturers of well-sounding, who would cry out at the sight of blackbirds in green light. Why do they cry out? Out of horror or joy?


  • The eleventh stanza shows the poet, who is protected but not hidden from the outside by a glass coach, and his fear (of reality?) caused by the shadow of his carriage (maybe an airplane) which he sees as shadows of blackbirds.


  • The twelfth stanza is a reference to the stream of life which is moving and therefore, as not to get lost, to adapt, the blackbird must be flying / changing. A cause/effect relationship emerges from the words "must be." The blackbird is reality; if it is flying it is changing, expanding in the perception of the beholder.


  • The thirteenth stanza is bringing the blackbird at last to a stillpoint, the atmosphere is one of tranquility, rest, of an outlook towards death, an old person in his everlasting afternoon/ evening of life. The snow is falling and shall keep falling - back to stanza one, to the snow covered mountains.

There is no one way of looking at the world, but many ways, none of them superior, all of them choices or decisions. 

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Relational Mirroring

The world, so quantum physics tells us, is fundamentally made up of relations and events rather than permanent substances, it is better unde...