Tuesday 24 October 2017

Dead Serious Artwork

I am dead serious.

A quote from "The Book of Mirdad" by Mikhail Naimy: "Die to live, or live to die."

Let me explain: "Die to live" refers to the dying of the ignorant mind, the mind of confusion, distortion, fragmentation, etc; the dying of which results in an abiding in the realm of pure energy (so to speak). This is the "treat" of the "trick or treat" : ) (Scary All Hallow's Eve!) The "trick" or less desirable of the two choices is "live to die". This refers to living a life that is constantly shadowed by our idea of death which stems from the totality of unrealistic psychological "fears" common in human beings. This is usually occurring at a subconscious level. Living this way must inevitably prevent the "dying to live" from taking place. So, a recognition of this subconscious fear of mortality is a prerequisite for living free of psychological restraints.

I will talk about Krishnamurti's contributions. Jiddu Krishnamurti talks of seriously looking at what is. Without first seeing clearly (without the interference/screen of the egoic mind/thought mind) the state of all things material (thought is considered material because it is a mechanical process in the field of physical time/motion - albeit a fast process (sometimes : ) ) ) one cannot proceed to penetrate into the depths of our inquiry into the true nature of reality. He often points out that as human beings, we must first start very very close in our inquiry. That closeness refers to the "me - the ego". If we are to understand the universe we must definitely first understand the human being but this is prevented by the fragmented way of seeing caused by the first fragmentation of the egoic mind "me and you". To see the fact of the ego in a "timeless" instant requires a total collection of energy, this gathering would not be possible without a certain seriousness or sense of urgency to "look".  If for no other reason, the man's work must be given proper attention due to the fact that he spent his entire career reiterating the same fundamental message - a message which, if not rooted in a true personal, factual, experiential understanding, the incessant transmission of which would not be possible to endure!

I have not transcended the egoic mind - I am a prisoner as of yet - but I would be lying if I said I have not tasted the fruits being offered. Perhaps this taste has encouraged the seriousness. I take this seriousness into my sketches of abstract form - poetry of line, contour, mass. I earnestly seek forms to awe, inspire, intrigue and to stimulate a sense of mystery - a mystery felt by fellow humans. I hope to establish connections with others through communication in the universal language of form - forms that touch the depths of human reality; prior to all culture, nations, tribes and war.

This is behind the wood forms. Thank you for reading.


Sunday 15 October 2017

Slingshot through time and space: a poem

Slingshot through time and space 
 by Mike Sasaki

My friend is a slingshot and I am the stone.
Afraid he'll propel me toward the unknown,
I look to my side, there's a wandering star.
Quickly it passes and soon its afar.
Onward I go through the densely knit ferns
Keeping feet off the ground so they don't get burned.
I shall not resist as I soar through the air.
Am I dreaming or dying? There's no time to care.
The black hole approaches but where do I go?
Am I travelling through time or the cosmic window?
What do I know? And where am I going?
The outer world stops and I feel like I'm glowing.
The ears are now plugged and silence does reign.
The endless low humming mutes slightly the pain.
To feel the existence of being located here
Would be like travelling afar yet coming back near.
I wake and die together I flow
Through the glass of no window.

MikeSasakiWoodForms - online shop

Monday 2 October 2017

Impeccably Clean Interior

The speaker outside was blasting an announcement, "Pre-pare for war!". Little Fred turned inside away from the window and sought the comfort of his abode. All white walls, impeccably clean, minimal furniture, very familiar for the young boy of 12.

His kitchen was always kept in order with systematic discipline, washing dishes right after dinner without enough time to sit and digest what was eaten. It was here that he felt most at ease. Taking a seat at the table he looked at his watch, a quarter to twelve. Almost time to prepare for lunch. Annoyed at the announcements from outside he got up and shut the windows tightly and drew the blinds. He did not have time for war.

He decided to make canned spaghetti for lunch. It was his favourite and it could be delivered to him by the box load at his command. He kept them neatly arranged in the cupboard above the stove and ordered new stock when he was down to 10 cans.

He wanted to take a walk this afternoon but the sirens and announcements on the emergency speakers would be too loud for his walk - he would not be able to ignore those.

By 4:30 pm the commotion outside amounted to a state of incredible chaos. Cars were smashing into each other and people were running around in the streets shouting incomprehensible protests and warnings seemingly into the sky. This rise in energy was felt by Fred up on the 12th floor of his building - not so much audibly but rather through an interference with his inner sanity. He could not enjoy his afternoon at home any longer. Frustrated and put-off he escaped into his bedroom where he could at least have more space between himself and the white walls. He sat on the wooden floor on a thin leather mat and stared at the northern wall. Since the blinds were closed he had the bright ceiling light turned on and the empty wall shone with an orange-yellow hue. He could no longer consider it white and that upset him further. He felt an unfamiliar rage starting to build up from inside his gut and he sprang up from the deer skin mat almost slipping on it but catching himself with his other leg. Now physically stable he thought quickly. He ran to the washroom where he kept the only object he could hang on the wall in his whole home. He opened the cupboard and hastily reached for the plastic mask. He stumbled back into his bedroom and taped it on the wall to distract him from the taunting off-white tint. Again he sat down in the center of the room and stared at the mask hanging on the wall.

The mask was given to him as a gift when he was in first grade. He never knew what to do with it until now. It was a thin plastic factory made mask with rough holes cut out for the eyes. The eyes looked half shut and the edges of the holes were painted black. The nose was a small and insignificant bump and the mouth was coloured lipstick red and expressionless.

Fred felt his irritation sizzle down like a skillet taken off the fire and allowed to cool. As sleep began to take over his body his eyes started to close but he kept them fixed on the object of salvation on the distant wall. Falling asleep in a seated position he began to dream.

He was running fast and straight through a field of corn. He tripped and went flying into the air, soaring above the field. He looked up into the clouds and his body followed. Up and up he went, higher and higher into the vast emptiness of the sky. The missile made contact and he was done.