the white box
Balance must be struck between mind-numbing labor and lack of information, and mind-numbing frivolity with so much information it becomes meaningless.
You are called, Arjuna
There are some writings to which you are close enough, in historical moment and the nuance of language, that each word falls like a spark on your skin, an electric current to the wire of your life. Others are foreign even in translation, even after the attempt to make them current or accessible to a …
A Word on the Wind
Tonight I was sitting in a pile of wood shavings, they fell like heavy flakes of snow as I carved away layers of beech, until I was adrift. A seated Buddha is concealed within what was originally a modest 6″ block of roughcut. The Buddha’s always within… I know that… you just need the patience …
Les heureux
The cobbles of the roadway wind from the heights down to the Saint Lawrence, through the old Centre Ville, where the money of past generations found their comforts, and the history of a nation come and gone remains on the tongue, in the food, in the grey and red blocks of granite in the walls. …
Stillpoint
What we repeat becomes our center, that's sure. So when the wind is kicking up spray — when the movement of the air is really howling round you — we return to what we have repeated, what has become our rote. If it is made of wood, you will likely float; if it is a …
To each music its refrain
Was the phrase "to harp on" really coined by Shakespeare — Still harping on, my daughter? — or did he conveniently lift it from earlier works, freshen it up, add a dash of dash, and re-release it to a marveling public? Perhaps every artist should work this way. A rather recent invention of the overweaned ego, the …
Wind
Invisible, the wind came off the high mountain peaks, cold and crisp as water from the glacier, and poured down the divide and over the foothills in torrents, mingling as it went with the desert air east of the range, stirring up dust devils and clouds, raising the earth from the earth and carrying it …
The conversation of touch
In our naturally egocentric way, we consider our senses channels of information that bring the world to us. We scan the horizon to identify threat or opportunity, we read; we listen to what is hidden or to what is spoken, what is sung; we are drawn to scents and repelled from odors, and we delight …
Speak, Memory
There is nothing in midnight but a fleck of ink on the otherwise empty face of the clock, or an electrical pulse which dis-integrates into a soft dash of light in an otherwise seamless river of life. We make the marks against which we measure our lives and call them time: they do not exist …
Gota de luz
Some words seem to be born of an inner and shared light… For me they may arrive after the stillness of meditation; but just as often the softest and most human words are accompanied or are led by a melody. All creation is frequency, is a movement of waves, from the highest vibrations of quasars …
The Language of Touch
The language of touch is one where two stories are spoken together, and two energies which by nature are completely distinct from one another, move toward and recognize themselves
Dust
I looked into the mirror and found that the dust of time has softened the edges of old pains and blended the colors of old joys; as though every footstep were muffled somehow, walking through snow toward night, walking in the dust of an extinct volcano toward a summit. Everything had become quieter, from the …