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

A Commoner's Hypothesis on the Metaphysics of Insight

Possibly good news for homosapiens.

It is possible that the end of confusion has always been here.

As we all know, communication has its limitations and obstacles. A simple example is: if the listener is sleepy, how can they clearly understand what the speaker is saying. A more complicated example is: the listener misinterprets what is being said due to their own particular patterns of comprehension and understanding of certain concepts and words. So, what do I mean by the word "confusion" in this context? I mean the deepest most fundamental confusion that we are plagued with as human beings, the confusion which prompts such questions as: What is the meaning of life?, What is happiness?, etc.

Now that that is clear, allow me to explain my claim.

As we typically rely on the fields of science, religion, etc. for guidance and supply of knowledge, we may find ourselves "waiting" for the "revelation" to come from the outer world. In science for example, as we are in the quantum era, we have discovered the limitation of classical methods of observation when coming into "contact" with quantum particles which behave in a non-classical way. The link between matter and the unmanifested dimension has been stumbled upon. Electrons may be here or there or both places at the same time. They clearly transcend the limitations of the time-space field.

Can we be internal scientists and make clear observations through awareness? Can the answer to our deepest confusion be found through clarity of "seeing" inwardly? When I say "clear", I mean insights, and realizations that come in a flash (seemingly from a dimension different then space-time). So, I distinguish between conceptual ideas and insights here.
 
Inward investigation and laboratory science share something in common: we seek to discover what is already there. The only way we can find out if "inward science" works is to start conducting experiments in this vast laboratory of the mind.


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Seaguls Are Beautiful Too

The seagul coasts through space with wings open for a few moments then flaps its wings again to maintain altitude. I observe the smooth flight trajectory and the indifference written on the birds face. But who is watching? I think what I see is real but it's a two-dimensional image with the illusion of depth processed in the brain. Movement never stops like a photograph, never. Light is fast but still takes time to travel. The stars we see at night are proof. Someone standing below has a different view of the event. Why should I classify it as an "event"? When did it start and end? Thoughts say "event happened". Thoughts are not mine, we share them as a species like currency is traded and circulated. But there is more. There must be more - the beauty of the bear taking a stroll, the whale out of reach in the deep waters of the ocean, peace and joy when the brain is calm and alert.

Another seagul coasts across my zone of visual attention, the fleeting movement is not recorded as the mind relaxes into the depth of silence. Here movement and sound merge. The separations dissolve, nothing is watching, the seagul is not a seagul, the earth spins fast, the wind stirs and blends, the gas and solids share their symbiotic agreement, the trees sway unconditionally supported by the surrounding air, I inhale easy and exhale next. Gravity is sucking me down toward the exact center point of the earth, a point so exact that it cannot be marked, it cannot take space. Does it even exist?

~ • ~

The spine of the bear, the flight of the bird, the apple on the table;

Social interaction, chemicals of positivity and negativity;

Timeless being, freely moving, gracefully silent.

This is "Behind The Wood Forms". Thank you for reading. 

Wood forms can be viewed and purchased at:

 mikesasakiwoodforms.etsy.com

Arch No.2 - in Yellow Cedar - 2017

Good And New Tools Over Mediocre Fish and A Side

Just as human beings evolved with their technology and tools over thousands of years the evolution of my craft also evolved with the tool collection. Without a vise how can you use a draw knife? What are the physical requirements for a shave horse?


Image from: https://www.permaculture.co.uk/articles/how-make-shaving-horse

 I needed a workbench/surface. I saw the Japanese traditional surface which was close to the ground to be used kneeling. I had a 5"X5" cedar post off-cut about 3' long. I saw cut a groove to accept a stop which is piece of wood to fit in the groove which projects above the surface to keep the work piece from moving in one direction. With this simple device, I could get to work. I could saw, plane and carve against the stop. Without a drill or brace, I was left nailing pieces together or joining them with tight fitting joints. I should mention, I decided to work with hand tools rather than electric tools at the beginning because I wanted to learn those skills masterfully. I have since realized the joy of working with non-powered tools - quite a profound and unique feeling indeed.

This starting-from-scratch approach to tool acquisition appealed to me greatly because I saw it as a sort of complicated problem solving project. In other words, I valued the process and took it slowly intentionally in order not to cheat myself of the valuable learning process gained with each step of this "evolution".

 At a certain point I decided to start investing in good and new tools. I compared acquiring a tool to eating at a restaurant and taking chances on the fish or chicken! It was always an easy decision to spring for the long lasting, very useful tool which provides joy and the facilitation of high quality work. There are quite a lot of tools necessary to meet the minimum requirements to make fine objects. It seemed every time I had a new project there was another tool I needed. But I knew that it was the right thing to do and eventually this process slowed down and I am left today with the collection of necessary tools which I invested in along the way. It's a collection that suits me and my work and has become a natural extension of my hand! I would love to go into more detail, so stay tuned for future blogs on the subject of tools.
 
One example: I bought a block plane from Lie-Nielson,...
 
Image source:
Imagehttps://www.lie-nielsen.com/product/block-planes/adjustable-mouth-block-planes-?node=4072

...springing for the unfavorable exchange rate from US to Canadian and UPS brokerage fee (which was a surprise) only to find that it was faulty. I sent it back and waited weeks for the return taking every precaution necessary to avoid being charged import taxes and the broker fees. I got mistakenly taxed again and had to file for a refund. All the while, I knew that all of this was worth it. I was correct. This properly tuned tool allows for fine work to be done. It has served me very well and having it in my collection is of great value to me.


Thanks for reading.

The abstract sculptures can always be found at:
mikesasakiwoodforms.etsy.com

Visit mikesasaki.com for a comprehensive presentation of my artwork in a variety of media

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.


MikeSasakiWoodForms.etsy.com

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.

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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.



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