Wahr sind nur die Gedanken, Gedanken, die sich selbst nicht verstehen. (True are only the thoughts, thought which don't understand themselves). Adorno.  and my favorite sentence - Max Ernst -: Man muss die Realität nicht so sehen, wie ich bin. (One does not have to see the reality as I am).   Journey: Snowyrainymushy grey at approaching dusk at the banks of the lower Rhine can be a tender color of expectation: construction of a city silhouette with a harbour slope, that feeds its own height  from castle and church architecture from the Middle Ages into the light of industry urban architectur of an ending century. Do the astonished eyes secure the traces of the athmos-pherical-geographically required mysticism between Man of Sorrows and last saintly Joseph's and Hanns Dieter's? Did in those saintly fields the last poetical thoughts evolve which a Hagenbuch once again recently admitted. "Who does not want to think, is out", as last call and warning not only for the Deutsche Bank (name of a German bank), but also for those not named and called amorphous mass, mostly living arbitrarily and self-denyingly. Nation or population? At least journeys into the void do not arouse expectations. But still a name like 'Emmrich' tempts to see on reflex before the inner eye a left foot with the instep from the left corner flag of the enemy's terrain into the further located, opposite and so the most remote nook: "Ecken// Winkel // Cézanne// Dank" (corners//nooks//Cézanne //Thank-you' once condensed by the master of the wrong track and the etymological/existentialist art of deciphering in the process of substantial perception and inner understanding for and with the mighty Mountain-viewer, who lifted the ever-same to the ever-new, poetical of painting. With the left instep  self-communion, right home-coming to Kleve - by sensual grey to Bedburg-Hau. 'Weites Land' (wide land) does not mean 'waste land' (Gerlach plays here on the kind of alliteration in  the German 'Weites Land' and the English 'waste land') but do seem next to each other in the view/sensation.

Melancholy with the sentiment of the eversame has also beautiful aspects. Too beautiful ones as it turns out when becoming aware of small-city-seized area. Bizarre like steel-glass skyscrapers in snowy-romantic high mountains at christmas time: an idyllic holiday resort, esthetically floating between rural Black Forest farms and block buildings where holiday-making seems possible? Slowly, very slowly Argus crawls into Iris discovering the cleverly camouflaged wires of sheds, fences, cages. Camouflaged barbed wire produces the just no longer semipermeable lamellas which obviously seem to have difficulty to be capeable to distinguish between outside and inside on one hand, but separate ideologically not only worlds but world views and resulting behaviours, attitudes and actions in the stonehard reality. In all ambivalence - at least apparently - associations of places and humans come into being. Though not including that herocial-erotical toxicologicum of surreal provenience which makes the hard-as-stone gotten fact of a mad house from a hard to verify sense of vision. But still here the German forest seems to have become a salutary metaphor since 96 years.... Admission: Only what kind of well-being about the free-time feeling do the involuntary people and those involuntary ones that are allowed to go out carry around and have carried around with them ever since 1908, the start of construction of Rheinischen Kliniken (name of a hospital)? Myths over myths: forrest, grassy area and field hiker, Via Romana, Order of Anthony of the Saint Anthony, Joseph Beuys (and the brothers Van Der Grinten) and the Rhein - always has been the mythological, mystical and romatic transe-like nourishing stream of the poets, thinkers and master painters...'time goes by, memory stays'...'people we love//stay forever//because they leave traces//in our hearts'.... 'you haven't even seen the world//but still had to leave us.//Has to go a long way//where no-one can accompany you//...'...'With the wings of time sadness flies away.' Jean de la Fontaine wrote.

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