Thursday, 28 May 2020
Free Form Poem No.2
There hung the muted dye patterns
Softly decorating the surface of
The cloth which
Undulated gently in the breeze.
Engaged in the rippling tides of time,
Peering deeply into the depths of design,
There, the eye was met
With the eternal bead of timeless delight—
Glowing through from ages past—
Now there was the sun.
~Mike Sasaki 2020
See the wood forms at: mikesasakiwoodforms.etsy.com
Tuesday, 25 February 2020
Unwavering Intent - A Poem
Unwavering Intent
The cement lamp pole
Wavers not in the racing winds of fortune.
Rigidly planted in the ground,
The adhesive powers bind strongly its constituents.
Nature's tree does brush the pole
With a reaching branch in flexible oscillation.
Icey cold, its breathless stance
Continues unfaltering amidst
Such kind surroundings.
The lamplight flickers out one rainy night.
The repair workers do replace the bulb
Despite the soaking downpour.
The pole, unaffected,
Water dribbling down its conical body,
Never utters a sound
As night evolves into day
And the distant mountains crumble in time.
~Mike Sasaki
Feb. 25, 2020
Thank you for reading on Behind The Woodforms.
The Root of Time No.3 and other sculptures are available at: mikesasakiwoodforms.etsy.com
The cement lamp pole
Wavers not in the racing winds of fortune.
Rigidly planted in the ground,
The adhesive powers bind strongly its constituents.
Nature's tree does brush the pole
With a reaching branch in flexible oscillation.
Icey cold, its breathless stance
Continues unfaltering amidst
Such kind surroundings.
The lamplight flickers out one rainy night.
The repair workers do replace the bulb
Despite the soaking downpour.
The pole, unaffected,
Water dribbling down its conical body,
Never utters a sound
As night evolves into day
And the distant mountains crumble in time.
~Mike Sasaki
Feb. 25, 2020
 | |
| The Root of Time No.3 |
The Root of Time No.3 and other sculptures are available at: mikesasakiwoodforms.etsy.com
Wednesday, 10 July 2019
The Way No.1 - July 2019
The Way No.1 - July 2019
The fierce wind carries soft whispers of truth
Alone, the sweeping silence fills the night air
With dreamy thoughts of fluid bodies
Eyes closed, full sight enabled—
Breathing pure air in the mountains
Walking back, empty thoughts—
Stirring stillness remains
Untouched
~Mike Sasaki 2019
The fierce wind carries soft whispers of truth
Alone, the sweeping silence fills the night air
With dreamy thoughts of fluid bodies
Eyes closed, full sight enabled—
Breathing pure air in the mountains
Walking back, empty thoughts—
Stirring stillness remains
Untouched
~Mike Sasaki 2019
Wednesday, 20 February 2019
An Unthinkable Agreement
An Unthinkable Agreement
The fog recedes to both sides as we walk through the last traces of the misty atmosphere along the crest of the sand mountain. The purple sky invites us to look into a glowing eternity of uncertainty.
I shiver as I pace along the soft, sliding peak of sand.
The night's cold is slowly regressing as the sun begins to show itself above the desert horizon.
Awake, I look out the window, the snow has covered the yard in a thick blanket of whiteness.
The sky too is filled with soft white crystals, packing the air with icey fluff.
Melting away all objects and life forms, nothing is left tangible.
The vacuum of emptiness swallows all things leaving nothing but awareness.
Awareness is, without object or subject, it is. No self to be aware of, nothing to be aware of, just aware of nothing, the one empty self.
The forms reappear in their magnificence. Shining, glowing, dancing, sparkling, shaking and spinning. Here we are, a part of the act, a moving, pulsing, energetic play of existence; instances of love, mystery, life and ecstasy. No artificial division, just one giant play with no audience.
Mike Sasaki
2019
Thank you for reading on Behind the Wood Forms blog. See the freestanding, abstract wood sculptures with metaphysical themes at: mikesasakiwoodforms.etsy.com
Tuesday, 29 January 2019
Misleading Reality
Misleading Reality
The words, like a chain of links made of glass running across the horizon like tracks from a tank pressed into the dirt.
Beyond the words, behind the machines, the factories, the shopping malls—
The space between the notes of a song, between the trees in the forest—
The container of all opposites.
The story is constructed out of clay and presented in stop-motion animation.
Playing out on the screen of our mind, we are both the main character and the critic.
What is this condition we are in? How can it be real?
The main character and the critic at the same time?
It must be overlayed on top of reality.
See-thru fabric, semi-porous in nature—
What fills the spaces?
Thoughts and neurons in rapid fire—
Upheld by the juice of existence,
The mother battery of life,
The blank canvas before the first stroke of paint has been laid.
The door is open,
Through the gate of eternity,
I return to my motherland.
© Mike Sasaki 2019
Thank you for reading this post from Behind The Wood Forms.
See the sculptures at: mikesasakiwoodforms.etsy.com
The words, like a chain of links made of glass running across the horizon like tracks from a tank pressed into the dirt.
Beyond the words, behind the machines, the factories, the shopping malls—
The space between the notes of a song, between the trees in the forest—
The container of all opposites.
The story is constructed out of clay and presented in stop-motion animation.
Playing out on the screen of our mind, we are both the main character and the critic.
What is this condition we are in? How can it be real?
The main character and the critic at the same time?
It must be overlayed on top of reality.
See-thru fabric, semi-porous in nature—
What fills the spaces?
Thoughts and neurons in rapid fire—
Upheld by the juice of existence,
The mother battery of life,
The blank canvas before the first stroke of paint has been laid.
The door is open,
Through the gate of eternity,
I return to my motherland.
© Mike Sasaki 2019
Thank you for reading this post from Behind The Wood Forms.
See the sculptures at: mikesasakiwoodforms.etsy.com
 |
| Root of Time No. 3 - 2019 - Mike Sasaki |
Tuesday, 18 December 2018
The Purple, Orange and Pink Dissapearing Sun
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.
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, 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
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