Day 2190, trapped.

Day's pictures, Poetry

Today I restored the window I started with yesterday as much as possible. The damage was mostly superficial, and I removed that what was rotten and replaced it with that what is new.

Like in real life the damage was worse where the window was most exposed to the environment and it’s lingering influence. Like a bad look or underhand remark water seeps down and crawls into narrow crevices where it slowly eats itself further inside.

This time we were lucky, the window was made of good quality wood and though it lived it’s whole life on the weather side it did well. I have to say that it didn’t help that later in life someone used modern sealant to prevent more water from coming in but this also prevented the already trapped water from ever moving out again.

Day 2189, windowless.

Day's pictures

Today I started restoring this 90 year old window. Taking care of old things is what we all are good at and I am glad that I get the time to restore this window and let it live for an other 90 years.

The poet in me often wonders of while doing this kind of work. I restored many boats, doors and windows and all of these have a metaphoric place in the minds of poets and even normal people.

If I look through the windows in the house where I live now, life goes on like normal. If I turn of the news my only worries would be not to forget toothpaste later today when I drive to that house, my home for now. But I also have a window into the rest of the world, and though I could close the blinders, light always seems to seep through the cracks on the sides. I is a strange world that seeps through these cracks of my blinders, one where I am not part of but at the same time are overwhelmed by, by the harshness of it light in my secluded room.

I restore windows, maybe because they have seen it all and deserve some love. I have seen it before to, the history books are full of the story that unfolds itself now in the world and there is always the older generations you can question.

For now I wonder why I only had questions when I was 8, and cared less for the answers. The world was an open world, a play ground I looked at through my young eyes, my own window without blinders or harsh light, or dark room.

Day 2187,

Day's pictures

Friedrich Nietzsche

On the genealogy of morality

Third Treatise: What Do Ascetic Ideals Mean?

5. What then do ascetic ideals mean? In the case of an artist, as we have grasped by now: absolutely nothing! … Or so many things that it is as good as absolutely nothing! … Let us first of all eliminate artists: they are far from standing independently enough in the world and against the world for their valuations and the changes in these to deserve interest in themselves! In all ages they have been valets of a morality or philosophy or religion; quite apart from the fact that, unfortunately, they have often enough been the all-too-pliant courtiers of their disciples and patrons, and flatterers with a good nose for old or newly rising powers. At the very least they always need a protective armor, a backing, a previously established authority: artists never stand by themselves, standing alone goes against their deepest instincts…

You can read the rest here: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/52319/52319-h/52319-h.htm

 

Day 2180, cultivation.

anarchism, Day's pictures

Josiah Warren

True Civilisation (1863), Chapter II, self-preservation

91. Before we begin to probe the festering mass now called “civilization,” let us prepare ourselves with all the spirit of forbearance which the case allows, that we need not add any unnecessary pangs to the already exhausted and dying patient.

92.” I know,” says B., ” that you do not admit analogies as proof, but is there not some indication of the Divine Law in the large fishes eating up the little ones, and in spiders spinning webs to entrap flies?

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Day 2179, victims.

Day's pictures

Albert Camus

Neither Victims nor executioners

…For my part, I am fairly sure that I have made the choice. And, having chosen, I think that I must speak out, that I must state that I will never again be one of those, whoever they be, who compromise with murder, and that I must take the consequences of such a decision. The thing is done, and that is as far as I can go at present…. However, I want to make clear the spirit in which this article is written.

We are asked to love or to hate such and such a country and such and such a people. But some of us feel too strongly our common humanity to make such a choice. Those who really love the Russian people, in gratitude for what they have never ceased to be–that world leaven which Tolstoy and Gorky

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