K. Eisenberg
@keisenberg.bsky.social
Harold: You sure have a way with people. Maude: Well, they're my species!
DIES IRAE
I woke up in a rage. No, I don't like the world at all. The majority of people are dead and don't know it, or else are alive but live like charlatans. And love, instead of giving, makes demands.
I woke up in a rage. No, I don't like the world at all. The majority of people are dead and don't know it, or else are alive but live like charlatans. And love, instead of giving, makes demands.
July 13, 2025 at 2:01 PM
DIES IRAE
I woke up in a rage. No, I don't like the world at all. The majority of people are dead and don't know it, or else are alive but live like charlatans. And love, instead of giving, makes demands.
I woke up in a rage. No, I don't like the world at all. The majority of people are dead and don't know it, or else are alive but live like charlatans. And love, instead of giving, makes demands.
Bus 77
When I pressed my hand
against the glass pane of Bus 77
returning from Battersea,
the windows were trembling with light
and I still had the notebook.
It was full—
a kind of museum of phrases,
each word scratched down
like it might slip away if I didn’t pin it.
When I pressed my hand
against the glass pane of Bus 77
returning from Battersea,
the windows were trembling with light
and I still had the notebook.
It was full—
a kind of museum of phrases,
each word scratched down
like it might slip away if I didn’t pin it.
June 22, 2025 at 1:00 PM
Bus 77
When I pressed my hand
against the glass pane of Bus 77
returning from Battersea,
the windows were trembling with light
and I still had the notebook.
It was full—
a kind of museum of phrases,
each word scratched down
like it might slip away if I didn’t pin it.
When I pressed my hand
against the glass pane of Bus 77
returning from Battersea,
the windows were trembling with light
and I still had the notebook.
It was full—
a kind of museum of phrases,
each word scratched down
like it might slip away if I didn’t pin it.
1941, June 22—and now
And still,
there is someone
writing the date
at the top of a page,
not knowing
it echoes.
And still,
there is someone
writing the date
at the top of a page,
not knowing
it echoes.
June 22, 2025 at 12:20 PM
1941, June 22—and now
And still,
there is someone
writing the date
at the top of a page,
not knowing
it echoes.
And still,
there is someone
writing the date
at the top of a page,
not knowing
it echoes.
I burned my hand as a child on the cserépkályha—the old ceramic tile stove. The mark is still there.
June 21, 2025 at 11:17 PM
I burned my hand as a child on the cserépkályha—the old ceramic tile stove. The mark is still there.
Unfolding now—
and what it could mean not just for the region, but for the world…
The situation is shifting rapidly,
from regional escalation
to the brink of global military entanglement.
What lies ahead will change the world.
But here I am, making beauty—
not despite the world’s horror,
and what it could mean not just for the region, but for the world…
The situation is shifting rapidly,
from regional escalation
to the brink of global military entanglement.
What lies ahead will change the world.
But here I am, making beauty—
not despite the world’s horror,
June 21, 2025 at 7:14 PM
Unfolding now—
and what it could mean not just for the region, but for the world…
The situation is shifting rapidly,
from regional escalation
to the brink of global military entanglement.
What lies ahead will change the world.
But here I am, making beauty—
not despite the world’s horror,
and what it could mean not just for the region, but for the world…
The situation is shifting rapidly,
from regional escalation
to the brink of global military entanglement.
What lies ahead will change the world.
But here I am, making beauty—
not despite the world’s horror,
Reposted by K. Eisenberg
Painting by Frank Taylor Lockwood ‘The Scullery, 15 Dalston Road, Acocks Green, Birmingham’ Watercolour.
Size 30 x 40cm. 1944.
Size 30 x 40cm. 1944.
May 6, 2025 at 6:53 AM
Painting by Frank Taylor Lockwood ‘The Scullery, 15 Dalston Road, Acocks Green, Birmingham’ Watercolour.
Size 30 x 40cm. 1944.
Size 30 x 40cm. 1944.
Adorno isn’t abstract theory—he’s a mirror.
May 4, 2025 at 11:50 PM
Adorno isn’t abstract theory—he’s a mirror.
‘The ballpoint pens nervously rustled on the pages; there were some whose tips tapped the paper, another whose push-button was tensely clicked by someone, occasionally cautious fragments of whispers could be heard, a suppressed cough here and there,
April 28, 2025 at 3:20 PM
‘The ballpoint pens nervously rustled on the pages; there were some whose tips tapped the paper, another whose push-button was tensely clicked by someone, occasionally cautious fragments of whispers could be heard, a suppressed cough here and there,
Reposted by K. Eisenberg
April 28, 2025 at 6:54 AM
Reposted by K. Eisenberg
“The pages of the book are doors. Words go through them, driven by their impatience to regroup, to reach the end of the work, to be again transparent.
Ink fixes the memory of words to the paper.
Light is in their absence, which you read.”
— Jabès, The Book of Questions
Ink fixes the memory of words to the paper.
Light is in their absence, which you read.”
— Jabès, The Book of Questions
April 18, 2025 at 5:06 PM
“The pages of the book are doors. Words go through them, driven by their impatience to regroup, to reach the end of the work, to be again transparent.
Ink fixes the memory of words to the paper.
Light is in their absence, which you read.”
— Jabès, The Book of Questions
Ink fixes the memory of words to the paper.
Light is in their absence, which you read.”
— Jabès, The Book of Questions
Reposted by K. Eisenberg
'Window.' (1856) Anton Dieffenbach was twenty-five years old and still a student at the Kunstakademie in Düsseldorf when he made this work. It's an extraordinary painting; possibly it is his response to a momentary light effect.
April 16, 2025 at 1:37 PM
'Window.' (1856) Anton Dieffenbach was twenty-five years old and still a student at the Kunstakademie in Düsseldorf when he made this work. It's an extraordinary painting; possibly it is his response to a momentary light effect.
Reposted by K. Eisenberg
“But from time to time. From time to time. What tenderness in these little words, what savagery.”
(Beckett, Molloy)
(Beckett, Molloy)
April 13, 2025 at 3:39 PM
“But from time to time. From time to time. What tenderness in these little words, what savagery.”
(Beckett, Molloy)
(Beckett, Molloy)
Reposted by K. Eisenberg
My favourite painting by Wilhelm Holter. The majesty of this work from 1904, comes from the deep, pearl-like iridescence of the walls, the illumination of the gilt picture frames, the reflections from the floor and the furniture; all from a single light source.
April 14, 2025 at 9:03 PM
My favourite painting by Wilhelm Holter. The majesty of this work from 1904, comes from the deep, pearl-like iridescence of the walls, the illumination of the gilt picture frames, the reflections from the floor and the furniture; all from a single light source.
Reposted by K. Eisenberg
Reposted by K. Eisenberg
RIP Kurt Vonnegut. Gone 18 yrs. Dang.
April 11, 2025 at 11:49 AM
RIP Kurt Vonnegut. Gone 18 yrs. Dang.
Reposted by K. Eisenberg
📷 Horse-Drawn Carriages in Front of a Wooden Mansion, Istanbul, 1900s
April 11, 2025 at 1:03 PM
📷 Horse-Drawn Carriages in Front of a Wooden Mansion, Istanbul, 1900s
In literature—from Pessoa’s drifting fragments in The Book of Disquiet to Sebald’s melancholic reveries—the pacing, the silences between sentences, the way a single image or memory can be dwelt on at length, all these techniques pull you inward.
April 11, 2025 at 10:55 AM
In literature—from Pessoa’s drifting fragments in The Book of Disquiet to Sebald’s melancholic reveries—the pacing, the silences between sentences, the way a single image or memory can be dwelt on at length, all these techniques pull you inward.
In Merleau‑Ponty’s phenomenology, perception itself is an ever‑unfolding event. He reminds us that we never grasp the world fully in one glance; every act of seeing, hearing, or touching is partial, pregnant with what remains unseen.
April 11, 2025 at 10:53 AM
In Merleau‑Ponty’s phenomenology, perception itself is an ever‑unfolding event. He reminds us that we never grasp the world fully in one glance; every act of seeing, hearing, or touching is partial, pregnant with what remains unseen.
Philip Glass’ music, like Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy, Degas’s pastels, or The Book of Disquiet, explores repetition with variation, stillness that moves, presence through absence.
April 11, 2025 at 10:51 AM
Philip Glass’ music, like Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy, Degas’s pastels, or The Book of Disquiet, explores repetition with variation, stillness that moves, presence through absence.
Merleau-Ponty said, “The visible is pregnant with the invisible.” That line could easily describe a Degas pastel — the silence is never empty; it is full of what cannot be fully seen or said, yet is always felt.
April 11, 2025 at 10:50 AM
Merleau-Ponty said, “The visible is pregnant with the invisible.” That line could easily describe a Degas pastel — the silence is never empty; it is full of what cannot be fully seen or said, yet is always felt.
When Merleau-Ponty speaks of emptiness in relation to Degas, he’s often referring to how Degas allows the invisible to speak — not by showing everything, but by suggesting, withholding, leaving space. This is not a lack but a presence through absence.
This pastel by Degas from 1869 is a masterpiece of impressionism. The beaches of Normandy, especially Trouville, gave Degas a perfect arena to create moments of spontaneity and surprise.
April 11, 2025 at 10:44 AM
When Merleau-Ponty speaks of emptiness in relation to Degas, he’s often referring to how Degas allows the invisible to speak — not by showing everything, but by suggesting, withholding, leaving space. This is not a lack but a presence through absence.
• Waiting for Godot shows what happens when characters surrender to inertia—they remain trapped in empty waiting.
• In Bernhard’s novels, characters who refuse to let despair swallow them sometimes find solace in obsessive routines or creative outbursts—imperfect, but alive.
• In Bernhard’s novels, characters who refuse to let despair swallow them sometimes find solace in obsessive routines or creative outbursts—imperfect, but alive.
April 11, 2025 at 1:22 AM
• Waiting for Godot shows what happens when characters surrender to inertia—they remain trapped in empty waiting.
• In Bernhard’s novels, characters who refuse to let despair swallow them sometimes find solace in obsessive routines or creative outbursts—imperfect, but alive.
• In Bernhard’s novels, characters who refuse to let despair swallow them sometimes find solace in obsessive routines or creative outbursts—imperfect, but alive.
Merleau‑Ponty reminds us we don’t just observe time—we live it. By pushing back against the urge to give up (despair) or to stay frozen (inertia), we make our moments count. We transform time from a burden into a field of possibility.
April 11, 2025 at 1:21 AM
Merleau‑Ponty reminds us we don’t just observe time—we live it. By pushing back against the urge to give up (despair) or to stay frozen (inertia), we make our moments count. We transform time from a burden into a field of possibility.