Looking out across the sea as we say "Goodbye." to the sun, that fathomless collection of energy pulsing in waves and chaotic spasms of life. Now, to us, the horizon is glowing in pinks, blues, greens, yellows, oranges, purples and reds. This is the sun's farewell gift to us. It's beauty cannot be ignored, the silence is alive with mystery and timelessness. Our connection with the sun is direct and prior to thought. As we soak in the scene, space dissolves and all is one stage in the drama. The birds, the mountains, the sky and air — all the moving forms swirling together like steam separating and merging in natural patterns of life and death.
The writer writes like he breathes. A pulsing of energy is moving out of his brain and through his fingers into the laptop's recognition. The laptop gives and gives and gives - an object of beauty which serves man in extraordinary ways. Receiving input and commands, the laptop works incessantly processing orders with rapid speed.
The rocks are alive, just slower to breathe than us. They are also part of this great earth — our earth, which is us, whence we came, whence arrives our food, our water, our air.
This life we are part of, this enormous collection of energy — the surface of which is dancing without pause in our tangible forms. The edges of objects, thin in reality, give imagination its fuel, but these forms are only the outer most layer of life, the face of the great beast.
We think in terms of labels, words, limited and fragmented logic. This cannot access the original. Our thoughts are physical in their neuronal activity, working like a machine processing past memories presently and creating ideas of the future. But stepping out of this thinking factory, we rest in eternity as time fades back into the illusion it came from and space dissolves into absurdity. There is no "me" or "you" to be found in this ocean of air, this soup of life, this awesome pulsing of eternal consciousness. There is only silence, peace, love, beauty, restfullness, surrender, existence, awareness — consciousness in its pure essence, behind the stories, behind the drama, behind the insults and flattery, behind the pleasures and pains, the receiving and loosing, the accumulating and dropping, the endless dialogue and human evolution of ideas over thousands of years, scientific discoveries, proofs, conclusions, mathematical logic, philosophical beliefs, rhetoric and assertions, prior to all this commotion there is the alive stillness of emptiness, the nothingness of all.
If the entire surface of the earth were to be engulfed in flames and all the humans were to be burnt to ashes, we, as consciousness and life, would still remain. You cannot burn life. Life is untouchable, ungraspable, the source of fire, earth and air.
We are so drawn into the drama of details, the story of "me" and "you", "us" and "them" that we imprison ourselves in our thought-based reality. It's all a dream. The drama is a dream. We must wake up to this freedom of eternity and infinity.
Tuesday, 18 December 2018
Tuesday, 23 October 2018
The Futile Search For The Formula Of Beauty
The Futile Search For The Formula Of Beauty
There the glorious statue stood, backlit by the morning sun shining through the massive museum window. From the onlooking man's position, standing in the cast shadow of the enormous figure, the circumference of the muscular stone was emanating an eternal glow.
Hand to mouth, the discerning man stood, picking at the parts of the monument trying to figure out the formula of beauty. No answer was reachable from this direction, eventually he was distracted by a moving visitor and the operation was terminated. The termination was of an absolute quality with a timeless presence like a black hole that made surrendering to it an inevitable proceeding.
How much time do we spend picking apart flowers petal by petal, snapping open the stems to see what is inside? The answer cannot be found no matter how closely we look. What is the nature of this limitation? The whole cannot be broken down into parts, however the parts can be used to contruct the harmonious whole. Remove one ingredient, be it time-based, spatial or material and the beauty dissapears in a flash of negation. There are dynamic interactions which take place on a natural level inaccessible to thoughtful comprehension. Perhaps the limitation is exactly that: cognition. Can the human access a different well of information? Is there a Knowing different from the knowing of experiential validation? After all, all experience is coloured and filtered by past experiences and this cyclical operation moves incessantly and automatically— the stopping of which can only occur when it is recognized at its core of functionality.
The car door slams as the busy man rushes on to the next priority in his frenzied day of chasing pleasures in a mistaken belief that he will justify his leisure time. He catches himself as the judge and immediately switches to an air of outward slowness while the mind continues to run idly. The bird, unmoved by the circumstances, calmly watches the scene from the rooftop gutter. The slamming of the door is not held in memory but the details of the scene are broken down into distinguishable frames of perception adding colour and motion to its existence in flux. There is no judging, no stopping with a thought, just direct observation and timeless joy. The silent woman watches the bird from below and sees the whole of experience in the beginningless and endless exchange of energetic forms.
See the abstract wood sculptures inspired by these subjects of inquiry:
mikesasakiwoodforms.etsy.com
There the glorious statue stood, backlit by the morning sun shining through the massive museum window. From the onlooking man's position, standing in the cast shadow of the enormous figure, the circumference of the muscular stone was emanating an eternal glow.
Hand to mouth, the discerning man stood, picking at the parts of the monument trying to figure out the formula of beauty. No answer was reachable from this direction, eventually he was distracted by a moving visitor and the operation was terminated. The termination was of an absolute quality with a timeless presence like a black hole that made surrendering to it an inevitable proceeding.
How much time do we spend picking apart flowers petal by petal, snapping open the stems to see what is inside? The answer cannot be found no matter how closely we look. What is the nature of this limitation? The whole cannot be broken down into parts, however the parts can be used to contruct the harmonious whole. Remove one ingredient, be it time-based, spatial or material and the beauty dissapears in a flash of negation. There are dynamic interactions which take place on a natural level inaccessible to thoughtful comprehension. Perhaps the limitation is exactly that: cognition. Can the human access a different well of information? Is there a Knowing different from the knowing of experiential validation? After all, all experience is coloured and filtered by past experiences and this cyclical operation moves incessantly and automatically— the stopping of which can only occur when it is recognized at its core of functionality.
The car door slams as the busy man rushes on to the next priority in his frenzied day of chasing pleasures in a mistaken belief that he will justify his leisure time. He catches himself as the judge and immediately switches to an air of outward slowness while the mind continues to run idly. The bird, unmoved by the circumstances, calmly watches the scene from the rooftop gutter. The slamming of the door is not held in memory but the details of the scene are broken down into distinguishable frames of perception adding colour and motion to its existence in flux. There is no judging, no stopping with a thought, just direct observation and timeless joy. The silent woman watches the bird from below and sees the whole of experience in the beginningless and endless exchange of energetic forms.
See the abstract wood sculptures inspired by these subjects of inquiry:
mikesasakiwoodforms.etsy.com
Sunday, 30 September 2018
The Passion and Excitement of a New Idea
The Passion and Excitement of a New Idea
The excitement lifted me out of my chair and I walked circles around my apartment in heightened euphoria. "That's it!... What a wonderful idea!"
As a "life scientist", I want to get to the causes of this event so that I can continue to provide the right environment for this type of event to flourish and live on. The two most obvious and superficial factors this time, I must admit, were adequate rest and an Ethiopian Yirgacheffe Specialty Coffee, freshly roasted (within 14 days) and carefully brewed with proper ratios and technique. The next level of factors under that consists of those relating to current state of mind, physical health, recent events and other contributing ideas. Going deeper, I can only speculate. Perhaps, having a certain energetic alignment is crucial (alignment of energy of body-mind with planetary energy).
Let's consider the idea that "creativity" is actually just a concept and has no reality to it. Ideas are recycled and passed around and are, therefore, old and there is no "creativity" as such, but rather a "mixing". But, if that is so, then what is this feeling of a brilliant new idea? If it is just a mixing, what is the spark of excitement, elation, even joy of that "new creative idea"?
Could it be that this particular collection of thought-bits fits sweetly into this particular problem-solution set?—in which case, the excited feelings might be a by-product of some sort of order or alignment of reason. Or, is there such thing as "real" creativity where something new is actually born? This would raise the question of what it means to be "born". Or, perhaps, my semantic approach is faulty. Instead of meaning "new from nothing" perhaps growth, like a seed into a flowering plant, is rooted in what already exists and refers to a new form but not essence. The information and building blocks for the flower is already there, it's just a new biochemical production from the ingredients. Perhaps creativity of the mind is not like a flower—perhaps Ideas are not merely thoughts. This would open a door to a new subject of inquiry though.
What if joy, passion and excitement were very closely related fields of energy that we tap into when our individual energy synchronizes with them? Then the role of the "creative idea" would be much less mystical, and more pragmatic. Our creative idea is one which fits into a higher order, the joy of which acts as a guide for us to follow. This would not answer my original question: what are the causes of a creative idea? The rest and coffee may provide clues. Maybe it's Order. If I am distracted by unproductive thoughts, there is more disorder and blockage and therefore less space and reception for creative ideas. Since, ideas are never "ours", since we never own ideas, where do they come from? The collective conscious? Then do we collectively own ideas as a species? No. because we can communicate with animals, and plants to some extent. So verbal ideas are human/cultural translations of ideas. The essence of the Idea must be more fundamental. When we are calm and peaceful, we are more likely to "get" an idea. So being peaceful is of the utmost importance if we are to set the stage for joy.
After all that is said, if we look at it another way, thoughts and creative ideas and even actions are transient and fleeting, so they may allow joy to flourish but must be discarded as soon as they are acted upon, for if they are not, they may fester and breed distraction from the next creative idea. So, ideas, seen this way, are parts of a process rather than concrete in essence—the same process that is living.
I know nothing. The idea is not ours, even if it's "new".
Thank you for reading.
The wood form sculptures can be seen at: www.mikesasakiwoodforms.etsy.com
The excitement lifted me out of my chair and I walked circles around my apartment in heightened euphoria. "That's it!... What a wonderful idea!"
As a "life scientist", I want to get to the causes of this event so that I can continue to provide the right environment for this type of event to flourish and live on. The two most obvious and superficial factors this time, I must admit, were adequate rest and an Ethiopian Yirgacheffe Specialty Coffee, freshly roasted (within 14 days) and carefully brewed with proper ratios and technique. The next level of factors under that consists of those relating to current state of mind, physical health, recent events and other contributing ideas. Going deeper, I can only speculate. Perhaps, having a certain energetic alignment is crucial (alignment of energy of body-mind with planetary energy).
Let's consider the idea that "creativity" is actually just a concept and has no reality to it. Ideas are recycled and passed around and are, therefore, old and there is no "creativity" as such, but rather a "mixing". But, if that is so, then what is this feeling of a brilliant new idea? If it is just a mixing, what is the spark of excitement, elation, even joy of that "new creative idea"?
Could it be that this particular collection of thought-bits fits sweetly into this particular problem-solution set?—in which case, the excited feelings might be a by-product of some sort of order or alignment of reason. Or, is there such thing as "real" creativity where something new is actually born? This would raise the question of what it means to be "born". Or, perhaps, my semantic approach is faulty. Instead of meaning "new from nothing" perhaps growth, like a seed into a flowering plant, is rooted in what already exists and refers to a new form but not essence. The information and building blocks for the flower is already there, it's just a new biochemical production from the ingredients. Perhaps creativity of the mind is not like a flower—perhaps Ideas are not merely thoughts. This would open a door to a new subject of inquiry though.
What if joy, passion and excitement were very closely related fields of energy that we tap into when our individual energy synchronizes with them? Then the role of the "creative idea" would be much less mystical, and more pragmatic. Our creative idea is one which fits into a higher order, the joy of which acts as a guide for us to follow. This would not answer my original question: what are the causes of a creative idea? The rest and coffee may provide clues. Maybe it's Order. If I am distracted by unproductive thoughts, there is more disorder and blockage and therefore less space and reception for creative ideas. Since, ideas are never "ours", since we never own ideas, where do they come from? The collective conscious? Then do we collectively own ideas as a species? No. because we can communicate with animals, and plants to some extent. So verbal ideas are human/cultural translations of ideas. The essence of the Idea must be more fundamental. When we are calm and peaceful, we are more likely to "get" an idea. So being peaceful is of the utmost importance if we are to set the stage for joy.
After all that is said, if we look at it another way, thoughts and creative ideas and even actions are transient and fleeting, so they may allow joy to flourish but must be discarded as soon as they are acted upon, for if they are not, they may fester and breed distraction from the next creative idea. So, ideas, seen this way, are parts of a process rather than concrete in essence—the same process that is living.
I know nothing. The idea is not ours, even if it's "new".
Thank you for reading.
The wood form sculptures can be seen at: www.mikesasakiwoodforms.etsy.com
Sunday, 1 July 2018
Light Piercing and Pervasive: A Short Story
Light Piercing and Pervasive: A Short Story
Josh stood still as he looked down on the terrace below his balcony. It was an ordinary day full of grey clouds in the sky and a sense of sluggish heaviness weighing down his body. He turned back inside and sat down on his chair spotted from stains of the past. Mistakes spilled over the upholstery, half-cleaned remnants of incidents associated with various memory webs in his mind. He was slow in his movements but something deep inside was restless and agitated.
Today he was going to take his friend's little boy out for a bike ride near the water. This was a task he felt dutifully committed to and considered the day a burden on his mediocre existence.
He had already eaten breakfast and was full of animal meat, various sugars and heated fats. He had woken today with an ugly feeling from the night's dreams of chaos and confusion. In his sleep he was presented with fragmented flashes of aggressive and violent creatures merging in with the natural setting of indistinguishable parts representing a claustrophobic backdrop of helpless imprisonment. There were patches of flat colours without borders, invisibly sharing space with each other. But, after his coffee and food he felt the dreams of the night slightly muted by his misty sense of waking presence.
He picked up the kid at half past 10. He did not want to show his disinterest so he put on a dynamic mask of contentment as he happily guided the boy along the route. Freddy, the boy was so excited about the day's excursion that he could not stop giggling, shouting and asking questions. Josh was not prepared for such a situation and was naturally affected by the boy's bright energy. "Which way is east now?" blurted the boy, smiling.
"It's that way." Josh responded, pointing out toward the vastness of the sea and sky.
He delivered the boy back home around noon and was prepared for lunch at his favourite burger shop. Licking his lips, he made his way down the street on his bike dreaming about his upcoming fries and gravy. Upon receiving his order he turned to take his tray to the dining area but as he turned to walk he crashed into a lady and the tray fell lifelessly to the floor resulting in a pathetic mess of scattered poutine, burger parts and a splash-like puddle of cola.
Josh did not bother ordering another set. He was actually not very hungry anyway. He left, slightly irritated by the event and brought this story with him as he walked along the street to the coffee shop down the way. He judged the others walking, watching their movements and clumsiness. "Why were they so automatic and careless in their movements?", he pondered as he looked out from his position as one would look out through a cockpit window. He took notes on his surroundings as he coasted down the street reporting his findings to control. An eery sound began to emerge from a few blocks away. The high pitched humming was accompanied by a slight crack in the clouds. The sunlight, long covered by the dense masses of condensation beamed out through the tiny opening with an absolute determination. With the humming coming to a halt, Josh looked up at the beam of light which was now separated into its colours as if refracted by a crystal. The sight was engaging and Josh could not pull away from the sheer beauty of the fan of hues. Just at the height of his attention, the rainbow streaks suddenly fused back into a single blinding white light, which then increased in intensity until it seemed to turn all things into an invisible white purity. Josh was left frozen in time and space, still aware of his existence but blinded by light. He felt as if he was floating but knew his feet were firmly rooted to the ground. Spherical pulses of energies were emit in waves from his center as he dangled in space. His presence was consumed by this all-pervasive force which he was not separate from. He merged with the essential power and was washed clean of his past. All sounds ended in time. Deaf and blind, Josh was not, but the one and only, the nowness of forever, the limitless fuel of life and awareness, the infinite field of clarity. He awoke, he was seated at the coffee shop overlooking a freshly brewed cup of dark roast, the steam swirling up through the air into his nostrils. He felt the moisture coat his nose hairs as the scent ascended through his system. He looked up and around, seeing others moving gracefully, walking around, sharing space, sitting, chatting, ordering, greeting. The blended motion swirled invisibly together, microscopically entangled in an immensely complex and incomprehensible way. Through the window, Josh could see the cars and people passing by on the road. The speed of the cars sent shivers down his spine, the people were most mysterious. He was not engaged but rather involved completely. The show was being performed, and he was both a spectator and an actor. The stage extended beyond the horizon and the director endlessly called for lights.
©Mike Sasaki 2018
To see the wood forms visit: mikesasakiwoodforms.etsy.com
Josh stood still as he looked down on the terrace below his balcony. It was an ordinary day full of grey clouds in the sky and a sense of sluggish heaviness weighing down his body. He turned back inside and sat down on his chair spotted from stains of the past. Mistakes spilled over the upholstery, half-cleaned remnants of incidents associated with various memory webs in his mind. He was slow in his movements but something deep inside was restless and agitated.
Today he was going to take his friend's little boy out for a bike ride near the water. This was a task he felt dutifully committed to and considered the day a burden on his mediocre existence.
He had already eaten breakfast and was full of animal meat, various sugars and heated fats. He had woken today with an ugly feeling from the night's dreams of chaos and confusion. In his sleep he was presented with fragmented flashes of aggressive and violent creatures merging in with the natural setting of indistinguishable parts representing a claustrophobic backdrop of helpless imprisonment. There were patches of flat colours without borders, invisibly sharing space with each other. But, after his coffee and food he felt the dreams of the night slightly muted by his misty sense of waking presence.
He picked up the kid at half past 10. He did not want to show his disinterest so he put on a dynamic mask of contentment as he happily guided the boy along the route. Freddy, the boy was so excited about the day's excursion that he could not stop giggling, shouting and asking questions. Josh was not prepared for such a situation and was naturally affected by the boy's bright energy. "Which way is east now?" blurted the boy, smiling.
"It's that way." Josh responded, pointing out toward the vastness of the sea and sky.
He delivered the boy back home around noon and was prepared for lunch at his favourite burger shop. Licking his lips, he made his way down the street on his bike dreaming about his upcoming fries and gravy. Upon receiving his order he turned to take his tray to the dining area but as he turned to walk he crashed into a lady and the tray fell lifelessly to the floor resulting in a pathetic mess of scattered poutine, burger parts and a splash-like puddle of cola.
Josh did not bother ordering another set. He was actually not very hungry anyway. He left, slightly irritated by the event and brought this story with him as he walked along the street to the coffee shop down the way. He judged the others walking, watching their movements and clumsiness. "Why were they so automatic and careless in their movements?", he pondered as he looked out from his position as one would look out through a cockpit window. He took notes on his surroundings as he coasted down the street reporting his findings to control. An eery sound began to emerge from a few blocks away. The high pitched humming was accompanied by a slight crack in the clouds. The sunlight, long covered by the dense masses of condensation beamed out through the tiny opening with an absolute determination. With the humming coming to a halt, Josh looked up at the beam of light which was now separated into its colours as if refracted by a crystal. The sight was engaging and Josh could not pull away from the sheer beauty of the fan of hues. Just at the height of his attention, the rainbow streaks suddenly fused back into a single blinding white light, which then increased in intensity until it seemed to turn all things into an invisible white purity. Josh was left frozen in time and space, still aware of his existence but blinded by light. He felt as if he was floating but knew his feet were firmly rooted to the ground. Spherical pulses of energies were emit in waves from his center as he dangled in space. His presence was consumed by this all-pervasive force which he was not separate from. He merged with the essential power and was washed clean of his past. All sounds ended in time. Deaf and blind, Josh was not, but the one and only, the nowness of forever, the limitless fuel of life and awareness, the infinite field of clarity. He awoke, he was seated at the coffee shop overlooking a freshly brewed cup of dark roast, the steam swirling up through the air into his nostrils. He felt the moisture coat his nose hairs as the scent ascended through his system. He looked up and around, seeing others moving gracefully, walking around, sharing space, sitting, chatting, ordering, greeting. The blended motion swirled invisibly together, microscopically entangled in an immensely complex and incomprehensible way. Through the window, Josh could see the cars and people passing by on the road. The speed of the cars sent shivers down his spine, the people were most mysterious. He was not engaged but rather involved completely. The show was being performed, and he was both a spectator and an actor. The stage extended beyond the horizon and the director endlessly called for lights.
©Mike Sasaki 2018
To see the wood forms visit: mikesasakiwoodforms.etsy.com
Thursday, 21 June 2018
Freestyle Poem No.2
Resistance of the Fact No.1
I say the name with great strength –
The name of the plant, the trees,
The taxonomy of life.
I clarify and order all things,
Material and not.
I move forth with grand strides,
Confident of past rewards,
Blindly attacking obstacles ahead.
My bones are weary, but I'm wide awake.
I fight with the strength of one thousand –
The battlefield of machine parts
Inside my brain.
The breeze brings soft smells
Of neighbouring flowers and shrubs.
I open the window of attention
And drink in the moist air of spring.
I am the scent of the world.
The friend, the foe, from whence
Do they depart?
The directionless here and now
I be. And resting, sitting,
Listening serene, I am not,
but we.
© Mike Sasaki 2018
See the abstract wood forms at mikesasaki.com
I say the name with great strength –
The name of the plant, the trees,
The taxonomy of life.
I clarify and order all things,
Material and not.
I move forth with grand strides,
Confident of past rewards,
Blindly attacking obstacles ahead.
My bones are weary, but I'm wide awake.
I fight with the strength of one thousand –
The battlefield of machine parts
Inside my brain.
The breeze brings soft smells
Of neighbouring flowers and shrubs.
I open the window of attention
And drink in the moist air of spring.
I am the scent of the world.
The friend, the foe, from whence
Do they depart?
The directionless here and now
I be. And resting, sitting,
Listening serene, I am not,
but we.
© Mike Sasaki 2018
See the abstract wood forms at mikesasaki.com
Monday, 4 June 2018
Freestyle Poem No.1 - 2018/June 4th
Prior to the poem - a short background
The undefined structure of the "freestyle" poetry appeals to my preference of free writing. I come from a prose habbit and want to make it short (about 10-50 lines), hence the "poem" title. I am not defining the word "poem" I am stating my usage of it here. I have expressions I feel will fit in this length with style considerations. I am digging into the depths of nature through acknowledging psycho-neurological importance. I do not have classical training in these areas but I label these subjects of my focus accurately. The tests and experiments are conducted in the "lab" of awareness - the subject being thoughts, perception, fear, "psychological time" and therefore "ego". I hope to find other interested individuals in this type of exploration who can join and bring energy into this inquiry. I make no conclusions - rather open ended ideas serve as tools for digging into the depths of life and our consciousness. Thank you and enjoy.
Freestyle Poem No.1
Blindly born crying in the light,
Commotion, is-ness, already present.
I am, but why, what and who?
The night is deep and empty,
The fear is all pervasive -
My bones are that.
Fixed in motion, travelling,
Following, endless ideas,
Circling, flowing, mixing,
Cutting, picking, disturbing.
Why, what and who?
In the soup, tasting of this.
Wanting nothing, nothing blending.
Falling, twirling, on/off switch cannot be found.
The undefined structure of the "freestyle" poetry appeals to my preference of free writing. I come from a prose habbit and want to make it short (about 10-50 lines), hence the "poem" title. I am not defining the word "poem" I am stating my usage of it here. I have expressions I feel will fit in this length with style considerations. I am digging into the depths of nature through acknowledging psycho-neurological importance. I do not have classical training in these areas but I label these subjects of my focus accurately. The tests and experiments are conducted in the "lab" of awareness - the subject being thoughts, perception, fear, "psychological time" and therefore "ego". I hope to find other interested individuals in this type of exploration who can join and bring energy into this inquiry. I make no conclusions - rather open ended ideas serve as tools for digging into the depths of life and our consciousness. Thank you and enjoy.
Freestyle Poem No.1
Blindly born crying in the light,
Commotion, is-ness, already present.
I am, but why, what and who?
The night is deep and empty,
The fear is all pervasive -
My bones are that.
Fixed in motion, travelling,
Following, endless ideas,
Circling, flowing, mixing,
Cutting, picking, disturbing.
Why, what and who?
In the soup, tasting of this.
Wanting nothing, nothing blending.
Falling, twirling, on/off switch cannot be found.
Monday, 7 May 2018
The Body Falls Short: A Short Story
His name was Potter. He would spend hours in the library absorbing past scientific discoveries without the intention of becoming a scientist nor putting this knowledge to use in making new creative discoveries by which the world could be pulled forward in acquiescence. He also loved reading all kinds of history books, constructing an elaborate 4D picture in his mind which he would modify and make more clear as he plugged in new information. The mental picture was like various tunnels moving through time and merging symbiotically where cultures would be partially swallowed up by other dominating cultures. He found great pleasure in his hobby, resting in the awareness of his abundance of knowledge gave him a sense of power and comfort which no one could take from him. It was stored up transparently inside his skull where he could call up any bit at will and sing it out through his throat, tongue, teeth and mouth. He even practiced this execution poetically where he could, depending on what the situation called for, deliver his choice of words in an order and set so beautifully arranged that the listener's face would often glow with attention and admiration. This tendency contributed even more to his sense of power and ultimately pride.
Potter was retired at the age of 42. He built up his estate starting from an early age. He now sat comfortably in his self-constructed throne of the finest upholstered silk and straw. His feet perched languidly upon a matching foot stool. His servant boy would fan him tirelessly throughout the hottest hours of the day as he, the king, would get fatter and fatter as his historical reconstruction grew too expansive for all the folds in his brain to carry and surrepticiously moved down his spine and into his belly. By now, the story in his head had a life of its own, Potter was no longer in control of the winding organism it had become. The story would seem to breathe on its own and take which ever turn it desired.
A few years passed. Potter was now more jolly and lively than ever. He would join discussions, circles, meet-ups and take any possible opportunity for him to share his story. He would even be praised by his debating counterparts for his prowess in rhetoric. Aside from these meetings however he did notice he was quite alone. He spent most of his day at home, at the library, or roaming around town by himself. He would cover this loneliness with food and drink,... and books.
He was out for a walk one sunny afternoon when a ceramic vase came hurling down on him from a window above. It struck him in the left ear and he fell to the ground with a thud. The vase exploded into a fine powdery dust as it made contact with the earth, and blew away with the warm breeze. Potter was out cold. His experience was other worldly. It was black and cold. He was travelling close to the speed of light. He began approaching the light from stars which would wiz by in the blink of an eye, one could call them flashes or streaks. Out on the sidewalk people were staring at his contorted body. Some could not figure out what it was. Its shape was knotted up like a pretzel but slimely like a slug. It was emitting a peculiar odour as well and most people did not stay long to peer at the seemingly extraterrestrial matter. A few people called for emergency services due to confusion and helplessness. Just upon arrival of the first paramedic, the dark-greenish-grey, slimely organic mass which once was Potter's body started to rumble and shake. The paramedic halted his approach in surprise and wonder. With a gradual climb, there became audible a long uninterrupted soprano note being sung with a deep raspy underlying quality. The growing whistling of the airy soprano F-sharp interwoven with the low guttural sound texture froze the onlookers in a state of mesmerization. Their feet started to lift off the concrete and their groundless trance-like expressions began changing into blissful smiles of ecstasy as their weightless bodies were strung lifelessly in space. An outpouring of alphabetical characters started spitting out of the strange organic clump. Pulses of letters, rainbow coloured and of sizes ranging from 12pt text to microscopic dust like particles sprayed from what once was Potter. The fountain continued in waves of frequencies and particles, endlessly pouring out into the atmosphere. In Potter's experience, the darkness was changing to light and his flying speed gradually slowed as he came to a standstill. Glowing light was now emanating from his body as he climbed out of the now lifeless coccoon drying up on the sidewalk and stood up to greet the onlookers who were now back on the ground with new expressions of perplexity. Potter took a look at his fresh hands and feet, thanked the crowd and the emergency services and walked on. He did not look back once. In fact, he completely forgot about the whole event and his former life within minutes. He turned into the bakery and ordered a plain, whole-grain bun and a bottle of water.
Thank you for reading : )
See the wood forms at: mikesasakiwoodforms.etsy.com
Potter was retired at the age of 42. He built up his estate starting from an early age. He now sat comfortably in his self-constructed throne of the finest upholstered silk and straw. His feet perched languidly upon a matching foot stool. His servant boy would fan him tirelessly throughout the hottest hours of the day as he, the king, would get fatter and fatter as his historical reconstruction grew too expansive for all the folds in his brain to carry and surrepticiously moved down his spine and into his belly. By now, the story in his head had a life of its own, Potter was no longer in control of the winding organism it had become. The story would seem to breathe on its own and take which ever turn it desired.
A few years passed. Potter was now more jolly and lively than ever. He would join discussions, circles, meet-ups and take any possible opportunity for him to share his story. He would even be praised by his debating counterparts for his prowess in rhetoric. Aside from these meetings however he did notice he was quite alone. He spent most of his day at home, at the library, or roaming around town by himself. He would cover this loneliness with food and drink,... and books.
He was out for a walk one sunny afternoon when a ceramic vase came hurling down on him from a window above. It struck him in the left ear and he fell to the ground with a thud. The vase exploded into a fine powdery dust as it made contact with the earth, and blew away with the warm breeze. Potter was out cold. His experience was other worldly. It was black and cold. He was travelling close to the speed of light. He began approaching the light from stars which would wiz by in the blink of an eye, one could call them flashes or streaks. Out on the sidewalk people were staring at his contorted body. Some could not figure out what it was. Its shape was knotted up like a pretzel but slimely like a slug. It was emitting a peculiar odour as well and most people did not stay long to peer at the seemingly extraterrestrial matter. A few people called for emergency services due to confusion and helplessness. Just upon arrival of the first paramedic, the dark-greenish-grey, slimely organic mass which once was Potter's body started to rumble and shake. The paramedic halted his approach in surprise and wonder. With a gradual climb, there became audible a long uninterrupted soprano note being sung with a deep raspy underlying quality. The growing whistling of the airy soprano F-sharp interwoven with the low guttural sound texture froze the onlookers in a state of mesmerization. Their feet started to lift off the concrete and their groundless trance-like expressions began changing into blissful smiles of ecstasy as their weightless bodies were strung lifelessly in space. An outpouring of alphabetical characters started spitting out of the strange organic clump. Pulses of letters, rainbow coloured and of sizes ranging from 12pt text to microscopic dust like particles sprayed from what once was Potter. The fountain continued in waves of frequencies and particles, endlessly pouring out into the atmosphere. In Potter's experience, the darkness was changing to light and his flying speed gradually slowed as he came to a standstill. Glowing light was now emanating from his body as he climbed out of the now lifeless coccoon drying up on the sidewalk and stood up to greet the onlookers who were now back on the ground with new expressions of perplexity. Potter took a look at his fresh hands and feet, thanked the crowd and the emergency services and walked on. He did not look back once. In fact, he completely forgot about the whole event and his former life within minutes. He turned into the bakery and ordered a plain, whole-grain bun and a bottle of water.
Thank you for reading : )
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