The Path of Mindfulness

"A practitioner is aware 'this is suffering', as it arises. One is aware 'this is the cause of the suffering', as it arises. One is aware, 'this is the end of suffering' as it arises. One is aware, 'this is the path which leads to the end of suffering' as it arises."

--adapted from Satipatthana-sutta, translated by Thich Nhat Hanh and Annabek Laity

Interview U

JAN 25 23:02

Today is Friday, Jan. 26th and it is 1:30 pm and I am staring out the window and in broad daylight I can already see the moon out in First Quarter position that will last until Full Moon Feb 2 05:45. I am feeling as hidden as this moon.

The Flaming "V"

a. Reefs
"Well, I'll swill seahorse's eyelash,"
Ravi declared. "I do believe I'll
masticate the alphabet twice."
She via Venus, thirsty heart
a serrano along the roadside.
Through the verbal ambergris,
desire laminates this puncture.

b. Branches
"Muse droppings,"
details Mavis. "A whole
bouquet." And the needles.
Thread glass stylus,
play love's archeology
of reunion. "Signed,
Okiagari-koboshi*."

c. Mannequin Fingers
She beneath aperture
coves draped in
phosphorus feathers,
spark plugs.

*Okiagari-koboshi, "the getting-up little priest" is a traditional Japanese doll. The toy is made from papier-mâché and is designed so that its weight causes it to return to an upright position if it is knocked over. Okiagari-koboshi is considered a good-luck charm and a symbol of perseverance and resilience.

Nombre del Arbol/Medis Vardas

sus manos
son mis manos
en la vida del arboles;
las manzanas
de mis ojos
son tuyos
*Spanish

savo rankas
yra mano rankas
gyventi medai
yra akies obuolys
*Lithuanian

Jupiter Uranus Square

These rabid braille details.
Reciprocation,
the icebox swears,
it is new language.

Lovers: when Jupiter,
in 12 years, contemplated
you--now, on January 22.
Make hands, make a significant
era. Uranus, 'the Awakener' hits
cosmic you.

You. Most significant braille.
Rabid reciprocations in
the language icebox.

Sneart

On the beach below,
a heart in the snow.

Mechanically Separated

Walgreen's had a carton of 12 cans for $3.

Aviary

Radio wire is often used to make bird nests.
What station do they listen to?

WREN

17

post of olive marrow,
winter lasso, arrived
each a mother,
a matron, & mistress
under the universe's
cruel microscope.
each mind letters
a scientist and then,
17 of them: "I am a
whisper." And then,
all that cuts thirst,
all in her walk to
the still lake, all
in each crimson gush
the maid cries into her keys.
"It must be." For pistachio
myth, this extinct exchange,
no cuneiform across men's
mysteries, chests,
aches, can cross.
_____________________________________________

The Brodmann area defining the primary visual processing area of mammallian brains, the atomic number of chlorine, the number which held the key to the control of natural forces in Godley & Creme's Consequences, the halogen group in the periodic table, Messier object M17, a magnitude 7.0 nebula/cluster in the constellation Sagittarius, also known as the Omega Nebula, The Number Seventeen (1932), directed by Alfred Hitchcock, 'the most random number' as described by MIT, The New General Catalogue object NGC 17, a peculiar galaxy in the constellation Cetus, the age at which one may donate blood and join the military voluntarily, in the novel So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish by Douglas Adams, a character who is unknowingly a rain god has a numerical scheme to categorize all the different types of rain which continuously bombard him; the worst, the heaviest, the least pleasant, is Rain Type 17, "a dirty blatter blattering against the windows so hard, it was impossible to tell whether he had the wipers on or off", the ratio 18/17 was a popular approximation for the equal tempered semitone during the Renaissance, the age of the "Dancing Queen", a mild swear word in Swedish, commonly used as "sjutton också!" ("seventeen, too!"), roughly be translated to "Darn!", the maximum number of strokes of a Chinese radical, the number of syllables in a haiku (5+7+5), in Nordic countries the seventeenth day of the year is considered the heart and/or the back of winter, the number of trees Dostoevsky could see out of the window of his cell while he was in prison, the number of surat al-Isra in the Qur'an, in Italian culture, the number 17 is considered unlucky. When viewed as the Roman numeral, XVII, it is then changed anagramtically to VIXI, which in the Latin language it translates to "I have lived", the perfect tense implying "My life is over." (c.f. "Vixerunt", Cicero's famous announcement of an execution.) The Italian airline carrier, Alitalia, does not have a seat 17.

Letter Spirit

THE LETTER SPIRIT PROJECT

Matriculate Blind

these ravens wore wool,
rushed to the story
of two stripped
planetary streams

fell she
fell
the eyes her
fell

wings clipped.

Fins of Cloves

In my Sanskrit state,
my still celluloid dream,
the last gelatine poems
severed from scrolls and minerals.

I'm the demographic gaffe,
protest me. This fission of girl,
this scaling. I, beheaded,
a loving cup smirk.
My life a mussel- a soft gun,
a parliament of flora,
my name.

Finch Me A Vacuum

Artist Céleste Boursier-Mougenot.



Saw his installation, From Hear to Ear seven years ago at the

Cincinnati Contemporary Arts Center.

He recently had an exhibit in NY (below) of vaccuum cleaners producing sound via strategically-placed harmonicas. In the backdrop of this exhibit, he a magnified a candle flame and kept the camera steady upon it. He then recorded the flame's sound vibrations as it flickered. When this sound was played back to the candle, it extinguished itself.

There is something about sound within an art installation. Sound obviously sets tone and environment. However, from a potentially-blind perspective, I have grown to become attuned to sound. Each nuance sound in daily life: of pitch, tone, variation, pauses, breaths, and white noise all indicate place, time, and mood. I can sense tension and love through sound. I can feel vibrations in the air. I can taste electrical impulses. When we viewed the exhbit of finches on a labyrinth of wire hangers, there was a chorus of their movements in the air. Sound implies existence. In the large, cold room, one could close their eyes and feel each finch move with a winged flutter and tinge of wire clinging in the air. It was as if you were a tiny finch in this created environment, for a moment.


harmonichaos



Photograph courtesy Paula Cooper Gallery, Paula Cooper Gallery, through Oct 14 2006
From Time Out New York

“French artist Céleste Boursier-Mougenot has casually arranged 13 vacuum cleaners, hoses curled and metal tubes standing at attention. Their indicator lights glow green and each has a harmonica stuck in its nozzle. One vacuum suddenly switches on, a wan yellow bulb attached to its side lights up, and air is sucked through the harmonica, sounding a wheezy chord. As it turns off, another goes on, its harmonica playing at a slightly different pitch. Soon all the machines chime in at intervals, creating the chaotic harmonies suggested by the work’s title, harmonichaos.

Boursier-Mougenot allows chance to conduct his concert: The vacuums’ motors are controlled by hidden sensors (modified electric guitar tuners) that react to sound frequencies, producing live, never identical call-and-response performances. Together with the muffled whirring of the motors and ambient noises in the gallery, the harmonicas evoke incidental pipe organ music, as if John Cage had scored a Lon Chaney film. In its spectacle of technology forming a disembodied choir, harmonichaos also recalls the eerie melancholy of Janet Cardiff’s Forty-Part Motet (installed at P.S.1 and, more recently, MoMA).

Opposite the vacuums is a black-and-white video projection of a candle flame, enlarged to the point of abstraction and flickering in slow motion. Its movement, we learn from a gallery handout, was generated by the reverberations of its own light. The fluttering was translated into sound waves, which were played back on a speaker; the sonic vibrations blew the flame out. But the video is silent and our connection to this process remains as ephemeral as the ghostly image itself.”

Hieronymous Bosch

The fish of man/
opal-dyed quasars/
yet to be molested or birthed/





We come back to where we have committed a crime,
[not] to where we loved.

-Joseph Brodsky

"Min-roe!"

Ultraviolet

THE RATE OF OSCILLATION
NEVER BEGS FOR INTERFERENCE

"Our Destiny is to Merge with Infinity"

...said the teabag tag.

New year thrusts forth the notion that we will receive a clean slate handed to us at the stroke of midnight. Though this mentally transpires due to intoxication, it is us who must shift perspective to this new state of mind independent of chronology.

It is this illusion that change only exists when we exert our will upon the universe, but it is the universe, ultimately, that is in constant flux and affects all life forms as a result. Impermanence, change, is necessary and an innate foundation of life. It is "okay" for things to change. We are not in a stoic state. Time is passing, we decompose. However, life is simultaneous, keeping rhythm with this and these accidents, coincidences, and "planned" occurences are all relative. Is it according to plan? What is the plan? Does one need "a plan" and why?

Is this a cruel, sick joke in which fleeting, meaningful moments ensnare entire being only to be interrupted by mundane being or is it in pure being that meaning is found? Perhaps there is no meaning in pure being, our hearts mechanistically pumping, each of us dead until the next significant moment pulls us from tragedy to elation?