straying with eyes closed and nothings (a found map of the universe)

"what makes us look for a long time is that we do not look where we should or that we look where we should not. but how to look for what we should when we do not even know what we are looking for? and this is what always happens when we compose and when we create. fortunately, by straying in this fashion, we make more than one discovery, we have good encounters, and often are repaid for what we have looked for without finding by what we have found without looking for."

"(in a dream.) to unite matter to forms, which are the purest, the most beautiful, the truest things in nature. (written at night without being able to see.)"

"poetry made with little matter: with leaves, with grains of sand, with air, with nothings, etc. "

some text from the notebooks of joseph jaubert, 1808 - 1812. image, an old piece of paper damaged from acidity, reversed.

between snowflakes and leaves...

between snowflakes and leaves there are resemblances. at the sight of snow falling one thinks that one is seeing small flowers that are falling from the sky. why is foliage dying in the autumn secretly golden, and why does one think of springtime flowers having tongues, to shape some kind of conversation? seeing leaves one thinks of hands, their fingerinesses are budlike. birds' feathers, leaves on a tree, the delicate feathery, fingery snowfall in winter - one rightly tells oneself that they are related. the wind seems to be an undependable blunderer; its lull is as sweet as compliance, blissful in itself, flowing round itself, feeling itself beautiful. does the wind feel that it is windy? does the leaf know how beautiful it is? do the snowflakes smile and do flowers charm themselves, and do curls know their curliness? a river in its motion resembles a limber wanderer in a hurry, the watery mass of a lake in its repose a beautiful woman in white gloves, with blue eyes. the profusion of leaves hides hides the enchanting finery of the branches. it is a pretty thought that pretty things exist. the shapes of waves and branches are snaky, and times do come when one knows that one is no more and no less than waves and snowflakes, or, as it clearly longs now and then for release from its uncommonly graceful confines, the leaf.

robert walser, 1927-29, in speaking to the rose, bison books

music for leaves...

the blurred winded leaves, the trumpet clutched to his chest, eyes closed listening, and that feeling like the whole landscape is moving right through him....