Image Image Image Image Image Image Image Image Image Image

Poetic Thinking 2016 | April 4, 2020

Scroll to top


One Comment

354b/(154b, 154, 354, 144b)

354b/(154b, 154, 354, 144b)
Vivian Lam

“Moreover, perhaps it isn’t love when I say you are what I love the most–you are the knife I turn inside myself, this is love. This, my dear, is love.” — F. Kafka

Montaigne, after losing his dear friend Étienne de la Boétie, began writing essays to satiate his need to communicate; so does “the reader” have the privilege of “[taking] the place of the dead friend.”

You cast your body into the world, a poem for us to tear apart. Act unchoreographed, act within civil boundaries and psychological biases, act to pave the way; you are the compass. You are thinking, you are poetic, you are being.

Photograph these bodies and make it art, photograph these bodies and make them worthwhile, photograph these bodies and make them our own—our Orpheus of memory.

Chris Hondros - Iran

Chris Hondros – Reporting Iran

“No more psychology!”

You’re a carver, a butcher with a smile, cut me farther than I’ve ever been.” So worship these creations, commemorating our existence.

van gogue's ear

Elmgreen & Dragset – Van Gogh’s Ear

There is  no truth but what you say, no truth but what you think.

“Communication is health, communication is happiness,” so make it pleasant to hear.

“Build mazes to give our wandering purpose,” so make our time worthwhile.

Play a game.

Sit around a table and convey information, convey thoughts, convey a spoonful of sentiment.

Cut into a density of words, let the pith weep out.

Apply, Remember, Analyze, Create.

“That is all” and that is enough.

We have made Air.

Thank you so much;


  1. Pensiero Liquido

    Thanks for the post. Especially the terrible Kafka quote is inspiring.
    Somehow it reminds me of some characters of Tennessee Williams’ plays. Although not so explicitly, they life love as a blade, in a visceral and exaggerated way. In particular, Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof says:

    “If I thought you’d never never make love to me again… why, I’d find me the longest, sharpest knife I could and I’d stick it straight into my heart. I’d do that. Oh, Brick, how long does this have to go on? This punishment? Haven’t I served my term? Can’t I apply for a pardon?”

    These lines always fascinated me, and affected me deeply.
    Although this seems almost opposite to Kafka, I think that the balde Maggie would kill herself with, is the same blade she is stabbing herself remaining attached to Brick.

    Another note: when you write “we have made Air”, I think at a passage I was re-reading last night of the second Rilke’s Elegy:

    For we, when we feel, evaporate: oh, we

    breathe ourselves out and away: from ember to ember,

    yielding us fainter fragrance. Then someone may say to us:

    ‘Yes, you are in my blood, the room, the Spring-time

    is filling with you’….. What use is that: they cannot hold us,

    we vanish inside and around them. And those who are beautiful,

    oh, who holds them back? Appearance, endlessly, stands up,

    in their face, and goes by. Like dew from the morning grass,

    what is ours rises from us, like the heat

    from a dish that is warmed. O smile: where? O upward gaze:

    new, warm, vanishing wave of the heart – :

    oh, we are that. Does the cosmic space,

    we dissolve into, taste of us then? Do the Angels

    really only take back what is theirs, what has streamed out of them,

    or is there sometimes, as if by an oversight, something

    of our being, as well? Are we as mingled with their

    features, as there is vagueness in the faces

    of pregnant women? They do not see it in the swirling

    return to themselves. (How should they see it?)

Submit a Comment