Listening to Shubert

I don’t write here anymore. An observation I make from time to time is as if, in its early autumnal days, inspiration is sluggishly abandoning its faded leaves in anticipation of a more solitary and wintry breath.

I bought a television. I hadn’t had one for 13 years. It’s incredible how far technology has come...

I fill my silences with high-definition documentaries: the nocturnal life of animals, the anguished life of Andy Warhol. With my tablet, I can spend an hour on a game of patience, a long time watching useless videos, observing the collective unconsciousness. With my Kindle, I read a lot.

At the moment, I am fascinated by the grand planetary cycles, those that initially have nothing to do with humanity. The Neptune/Pluto synods, Uranus/Neptune, and many others can be associated with the dramatic phases of the human species. A beautiful soup.

There is a planetary index that measures the total angularity of the stars. André Barbault became famous for, among other things, predicting the 2020 pandemic in this way. 2022 is not to be outdone; the solar system currently has the lowest index since 1988. We are promised a renaissance in 2026. And World War III in 2080. Like that.

In short, it’s all the same?

While Putin is masturbating in front of Ukraine with the bit of vigour he has left, researchers are flying planes with the sole force of ions, managing to tame nuclear fusion as best they can. Our consciousness could be, according to some, the result of quantum probability.

And let’s not forget the RNA that will save us while Africa kills each other without us being offended.

We choose our show. We still have that luxury. Yet our destiny is played out within voodoo rings. We still believe that our carelessness will get us out of the hole again.

Meanwhile, my teacher asked me to select a Schubert lied. There are so many. Schubert composed during the Uranus/Neptune conjunction (synod) of the 19th century, which marked the Romantic period when individualism was discovered in its struggle with the ocean. One hundred and seventy-two years later, from the 1990s onwards, individualism is being rediscovered and lost in the tumultuous and shifting waters of the emerging virtual world. We ask ourselves the same questions, and we grope around.

Symbols can be made to say anything, especially as they intertwine and mix their colours.

In the meantime, I continue to sing because I know that I won’t be around for the next Ouranos and Poseidon encounter. I have nothing else to say in conclusion. I am only an eternal electron, moved by ineffable forces, and I might as well go back to Schubert.