Telling stories actually has almost nothing to do with rationallaty (“Vernunft”), as it is not the language of the the concious but of the emotions instead. Artists, tirans and sybarites know or use this for their own expressions or interests. If the story is about moderation and temperance, the rational level is addressed but the emotional level is lost. And even more: where and how is the instinct involved and satisfied (happy end, eternal life)? Earthrise is a very expressional view, dating from a recent but not now appealing decade anymore, which ‘showed’ hope for mankind in those specific turbulent times, but has surpassed largely in half of a human lifetime. We have our ditto times, themes and current answers. Once a piece of art is created, it is outdated. I do like Dante’s work, such a monument, this medieval perception.
Trying to break the bounds of the now, the needs and urges, to flatten out ripples on the waves of history, dissolve from this blissfull and bountyfull polarised life, its joy and sorrow, seen as if from far above on Olympic clouds or from far away above Selene deserts, gazing out towards that blue pearl, is only but a first step, eager awaited yet so difficult to perform. It’s the Hero’s – our – Journey.
How to tell a story, how to point others to awareness? There is no other route then to follow, not exact, not imitating, the authentic personal interpretation no matter what. No generalitions, no all including definitions, no final answers. And no eclectic views from above or below, but from this middle plane only, the emo-level. Story level.The professor, his daughter and the burned matches. That’s the story. On a rational level, they are different. On the emotional level, they are exchangeable, interchangeable better. On the the instinct level, they are the same. These three strata of consiousless (no good english, but the transcription engines sort of fail now) must coincide (compare that coincide of opposites) for a succesfull story, image or promise whatsoever. A rapture in any form will suffice, but be it a rapture, or nothing.
On this, a personal threshold (like anyone else): meeting, joining and loosing what appears to be the hubris is a breathtaking experience, not alloyed in times long ago, but immortal in memories. To erect a monument proper, on behalf of such an encounter, rarely gifted, no yield guarenteed, is, in storytelling, not simply a writing, but an urge to express. The wounded impaired king retold. The world now is so kingless.