To paint

Is to release

The fragrance

Of one’s passage

On earth

 

Place a frame over anything, and there is a mind

squaring the earth

 

A photograph dies

If it moves only the senses

And lives

If it opens doors

To the unknown

 

In gravity, the horizontal plane

In no-gravity,  the vertical plane          

At this intersection, we live

 

Naked is the body

Clothed is the mind

 

Laughter opens heart

Seriousness closes mind

 

Laughter erupts when the smallness

Of mind is exposed

 

This body-earth

Walks

Upon itself

 

Seen from the moon, all quarrels are a waste of time.

 

Suicide

Is to go to war

Over this earth

That we are

 

When I am

This earth

All that remains

Is dancing

And singing

 

If my mind would move like this earth

It would be quiet

 

When I am this earth

All faces

Are my face

 

Still is the mind

That does not know

    Still is the body  

    That does not belong to anyone

 

What is

Behind sadness ?

Greed of wanting more

 

What is left

Except flying

Outside the gravity

Ofthis small mind ?

 

If this body-mind

Is a mountain

How will it be touched

By the winds of change?

 

Belief is a secure way

To hide all that is unpredictable

 

No

Is the horizontal gravity of this mind

Yes

Is the vertical freedom of this moment

 

like a color

Humans are mysterious

Unless someone

Has found out

What blue red and yellow

Are

 

When one is

Allboundariesvanish

AndI am nowhere to be found

 

Photographs

Are silent gaps

Into the freedom

Of the unknown

 

A photograph

May bring silence

The rest

Is superfluous

 

Can I unlearn

and listen to a photograph

Like the wind

In the pine trees ?

 

If the clouds

Would be blue

Where would be the problems?

 

It is no surprise to see the world as it was

How can I see it as it is?

 

This body-mind is a big pipe

How to make it a flute?

 

When the moon

And the grass

See through me

How can I not

Be happy then?

 

Lift anything

And you’ll bring light

Where there was

Darkness

 

We would not know

Freedom

If it were not for

Fences

And prisons

 

In the art of doing nothing

Is born

The art of doing things for nothing

 

Humans are

Vertical

Hyphens

Between

Earth and

Sky

 

I can either

Look

Through this body’s eyes

Or through the Earth’s eyes

The choice is open

 

What to say

To this ignorant mind

Who thinks it masters

Language

And therefore masters

The earth?

 

Nowhere to be seen

Is the object

Of my desires

For it will

Always change

 

If by chance

You encounter God

Give yourself

A handshake

 

In silence

Find the words

Beyond thoughts

 

In silence

I cannot

Not be

 

It is the easiest

Thing to say

That things

Are the way they are

But it is the hardest thing

To remember

 

Be a tree for others

For it will tell them

That nothing is needed

Apart from Being

 

Walking on one’s hands

Would be a way

To see reality as it is

For everything

Would be fresh

And thinking

Would cease to be

 

When the nature of things

Truly appears

All becomes so lively

That even names

Disappear

 

When is a painting or a photograph

A mirror

Into which

I disappear?

 

The hills and valleys

Of the earth

Are the belly and legs

Of this body

 

Humor

Is the collision between

Life

And the plans made

By my mind

 

I am

The ear eye

Mouth nose

And skin

Of the earth

 

When

Reason derails

        All

Appear

        Alive

 

Feeling the body

Feeling the earth

          I am not thinking

          Therefore I am

 

Body is light

Light is color

No origin no aim

Just travelling

Just being

 

when things do not fit

the boxes of my mind…

laughter explodes

and life comes in

 

Humor is seeing that making sense

Belongs to the flowers and the trees

 

I walk this earth

Thinking

That the landscape

Is outside of this body

          As if my parents

          Were not inside me…

 

Landscape is a ground to perceive that

In reality

All things are related

By invisible threads

 

Whatever I say

Whatever I do

This infinite landscape

Is doing it

 

It’s miraculous that

Although living in my mind

I still exist

 

Inner landscape

Outer landscape

Where do they begin?

 

All is the landscape

Even that small mind

Of mine

 

This body

Is always in flight

Living and dying

Every moment

 

I say, “ I have not seen anything like that.”

But actually, every second,

I have never seen anything like that

 

Anything

That makes us

     Question

     What we think

Is serving

Our intelligence

 

Nonsense is

As necessary

As Chantilly

On a cake

 

To paint a body

Is to see it afresh

With a sculptor’s eye

Why would anyone

Desire or fear

A stone statue?

 

Man is at the intersection

Of a dilemma

Choosing either the

             No

Of horizontal

Time and space

Or the vertical

           Yes

Of this very moment

 

To be

     Is to be naked

No longer separated

     From anything

      In the world

 

Our simple

      Bare being

Is as unavoidable

       As this present

       Moment

 

A bare body

        Is simply this:

This simple

Moment

     Infinitely present

 

It is true

That waking up

     happens

After sleep

     But who says

That I am not sleeping

     When awake?

 

A painted body lays open

The flowering of something

Unnamable

 

In the space

        Of an “if”

There is no room

For being

 

A train

Of thoughts

       Does not have

Windows

        From which to enjoy

The countryside

 

If there was only one meaning for each word

We would have stopped

All wars

 

A cloud 

Embodies

       The nature

       Of this life:

Both present

And already

              Gone

 

A brain is like

     A funnel

It narrows

      The vastness

Poured into it

 

to live

as if the scent of roses

           matters

is one of

grateful thanks

this planet

        can hear

 

Laughter

Is the sound

            Of mind dropping

On the floor

 

Laughter

Makes itself

Precious

         For it offers

         Nothing

And in nothing

Is everything

 

Cats and dogs

Do not need laughter

      For they do not

      Take themselves

 So seriously

 

 “you “ only

exist

if there is

a “me”

what if

These hills and rivers

were me?

 

Laughter breaks up

The glue attaching me

To all things          

 

Order is like uncombed hair

It confuses

Natural disorder

 

The body flying

Is only a dream

        For those who

        Who do not see

That it flies

All the time

 

Jump into the unfamiliar

Until you can hardly breathe

       For it will suffocate

       You with beauty

 

Balloons, like thoughts, are fun

To watch

Unstable

Limited

And they tend to deflate

Swiftly

 

Hear the sound

Of a word

     And not

     Its meaning

Peel off

Meaning

     From the sight

     Of this body

 

Be this heart

And you will see

        That colors

Are deeper

        Than you knew

 

Knowledge is just gossip

 

Photographing

         The incongruous

I give back

       To the earth

What it gives

       Perpetually

 

Point

At anything

It will warm you

With your

Own blood

 

Anywhere

In the world

     Walk

     As if you were

     Naked

Then what would you

Not let go of ?

 

If you want

           to be

Become a color

Naked

         Walking

         Without

         The clothes of beliefs

One enters

         The desert

         Of the self

 

It is clear

That little

Is clear

       As long as

I think about

            It

 

In one word

         Ten thousand

          Meanings

Whom to hear?

 

Drunk with the earth

       Luminous

       We turn                          

Like stars

       Landing flat

       In the agony of time      

 

The birds

And the clouds

     Call me

So that I see

The world

     From their point of view

 

Working with silence

Why would I need narratives?

.

In action, noise

In being, silence

      In silence

Trees,  stars,

And bodies

All melt             

      Into one big

      Jelly bean

 

There are two ways

To see the stars:

       Look up

Or look inside yourself

 

It is well known

That 2+2 =4

       It is less well known

That it is a perfect

Accident

 

Walls

         Do not show  

         Their ears

Until someone  

Hears them

 

Painting a body

Suspends the naming of its parts

And it becomes

Again

       A spread of light

       Flickering

       In the landscape

 

Painted bodies

         How can I look

         At anyone

 

In terms

Of skin

Color ?

 

Painted body

Or innermost

Flowering ?

 

 Color is my “black and white”

         With colors

The body becomes alien

Any mound or hollow

Becomes a plastic sculpture

         Hard to name

         Or desire

Without words

         I see anew

Experience has replaced thought

         And the body again

         Is flowers in a field

 

If wanting more

Than this moment

      Is Hell

Then this moment

       Must be Heaven

 

 Color and light

Are the fabric

Of this Body-Earth

And

 The entire universe

 

 

 

The universe

Always says “yes”

        “No “ belongs to

        This small mind

 

 

 

 

 Each word

     Is like

     A knife

Peeling off

Flat images

From reality

 

 

Light is blind

For it moves

Everywhere

 

Light is blind

For not a single body

Carries it

 

Light is blind

For it travels

In darkness

 

 

 

When I know

I am a stone    

 When I don’t know

I become water

 

There are

Many things

I do not know

But is there

One thing

I truly

Know?

 

Belief is the king

Of my fiefdom

The more I believe

The more it shrinks

 

Mind is a circus clown

Who believes

He is a banker

 

A photograph

Is a trace of light

Fast food

For the poor

 

Don’t watch what people

Say

For it may be

The only

Unimportant

Thing

They do

 

“It’s all or nothing”

but why the alternative?

Are not they

Equivalent?

 

This body-mind

Is Light

      Thrown in

      All directions.

Painted colors

Are a trace of

      Our helpless

Flower nature

 

When one

Is absent

Then one

Is

 

When the story

Disappears

The world

Appears

 

To paint

Is to be

The mystery

Of light

As matter

 

To paint is akin to bringing musicians in

So folks can come and dance

 

The tyranny

Of meaningfulness…

Do stars and clouds

Move meaningfully?

 

To paint

Is my mind‘s job

Continuously, it paints “reality”

 

To paint

Is to dream

Within

The dream

Of my senses

 

To rediscover

The musicality

Of the body

I use paint

 

In the light

Of the moment

There is darkness

The not-knowing

That lies ahead

 

Everything is painting:

This whole fiction

I call reality

This whole universe

Is painted

In my mind

 

Ideas are

Invisible stones

 

Being the landscape

Is to catch our minds

By surprise

       What if there were

       No selves that taint

       The universe

With the color

Of its own glasses?

 

To paint

is to open one’s heart

        For what could remain

                     Closed

While I am not thinking?

 

I shoot ”in nature”

Enjoying

The surprise of infinite encounters:

A shadow, rain, cloud, or light

Meeting as fortuitously

As several arrows in mid-air

 

What are we but light?

 

Paint on a body

Takes away

Habitual narratives

And creates a distance

While cooling the

Senses…

Freshness, life,

Or poetry

Are then allowed

To come into play

 

Every moment

Is always

The last supper

 

To paint is

To become

Other

All people and things

Around us

 

the earth

Is our flesh and bones

And the sky

Our mind

 

Can a photograph

Bring me

To a place

Beyond reason?

 

Color is freedom

Flowering within

This body

 

The less identifiable a work

The more questions it may raise

 

What else

But humor

Can undermine

The constant chatter

Of my mind?

 

Having

Has acquired

The license

To steal

Being

 

Strength

Is to walk

In the shadow

Of oneself

 

Strength

Is not believing

My mind

 

If I look attentively

At the clouds

I should learn everything

About myself

 

To paint a body

Is to give birth

    to give birth

Is to realize

that I no longer am

 

In place of saying, “I am,”

I should say:

“I Human”

“I sea”

“I cloud”

Depending  on where

My attention is

 

Through the

Theatrical

Excess of

Color

These age old

Questions:

What is it ?

What is this body-mind?

 

Death

Is this second    

Made a bit longer

 

 My brain is as stretched as a rectangle

to better play the game of ideas

 

To see form as form

Without any label

Is as vital

As not confusing water

With wine

 

My fears are proportional to the illusion

That I know anything

 

How can I see the body’s real colors

Without my mind’s coloring

 

I watch the stars

Watching me

 

The desert is

The very nature

Of our mind

Before it sticks

To pots

Cars

Fame and fortune

 

To paint

An illusion

Is both to hide it

And make it

Visible

 

Matter

Is a less-condensed

Version

Of thought

 

Every second

Descend

Into this body

As if it were

A dwelling

In wonderland

 

Acceptance

Is the other side

Of not knowing

 

Words

Do not unveil

A mystery

 They hide it

 

This body

Standing up

I

Is perhaps

The only ideogram

Of the English language

 

The horizon is

Close to the nature

Of our mind:

The more we try

To get it

The more

It recedes in the distance

 

Questions

Are close to being

For they give insight

Into

The unknowable

 

Pain is condensed thought

 

Thoughts

Like clouds

Move away

From were

We are

 

Why do I paint or photograph

Except to become the light ?