Saturday, 27 September 2008


Taoism might seem to express an approach towards fate that is similar in many aspects to that of Stoicism. However, it does so in a specific Chinese way of thinking, resulting from an utterly different attitude to the world.
Whereas our - i.e. European - culture since time immemorial (since ancient Greeks – excluding Epicurus, perhaps - that is) sees rules, regulations and generalisations as the essence of learning, whose basic paradigm brings about absolute supremacy of abstraction over everyday experience, generalisation over individual being and rules over spontaneity, the way of Tao is anything but the aforementioned.
Lao-tzu and Chuang-tzu, the mythical creators of Taoism, contrary to Stoics were not rationalists. The ultimate reality of or in Tao is an inexpressible and miraculous mystery. This attitude originates in mystic contemplation making it similar to the approach of an artist, whose main if not the only task is to try and unveil – for a fraction of a second at least – the mystery of existence to her or himself and in consequence to the other – a spectator, a reader, a visitor to a gallery or a listener. It is also free from European moralising. In stark contrast to our culture Taoism points to that aspect of human freedom which is best represented by spontaneity. Totally free and under no pressure Tao acts fully spontaneously in each and every second.
As each and every being is unique all generalisations (including the one you are reading now) from moral to scientific to religious to philosophical to whatsoever are anything but true.
Here again comes spontaneity, which means an existence beyond (not for or against) any rules or regulations and at the same time in unison with one’s own unique nature and the ever changing harmony of the chaos, which we have all agreed to call the world.
Such an approach is rooted in and originates from disinterested contemplation (Thomas Aquinas' visio echoes beautifully here, I believe. Strangely enough).
Seconds out then…


It’s no real change to forget setting the sun
And wake up to a warmer cup of tea
A silhouette in the doorway
I get laid again
I lie down to rest
So I’m here still surrounding
And the sound is coming closer
And the edge is being sharpened
And a dream
A pitch dark dream
And I drench the dream and drift


It may be a cruel month
Prospects are hanging in anticipation

At the river we were lurking in twilight
The bank swam up and I leaned my chin against it

Mutterings of long gone moods
Departed in disappointment


There’s a chair sitting in the room
The table’s stretching its legs out
All the other ones are absorbed
In chores and sucking pleasure it is
I who does not belong

It all began so wanly later
I welcomed other shades for scrutiny
And then disharmony was caused
The basic colour stayed on divided
Up into seconds isolated sounds


Sitting down in a chair ain’t no answer
An apple nowhere near rough estimate
So impressions have grown into the mind
Appearing as reality.
This way no answer has been offered.
Is the night leaving? Or is it just breathing
And rambling? Thoughts heaped up
Have gone berserk and flashed.
Perverse recurrence of questions
And heavy twilight where one could
Make out things that otherwise might
Just as well have stayed unnamed. Lies
Resurrected and spread all over. Guts
Dispersed with digestion. This is how
Vague reality unveiled what was too obvious
To be one


It may well be assumed
That the sun carves its own shape
Apart from preposterous assumptions
In deepest black which does not need a god
With crops galore in store

The weary greed of explanation
Fiddling in someone else’s pockets
And even a thirst for tea isn’t given time
For completion and in the brightness of the night
They kill infants incessantly conceiving new ones


When the eyes drowned
The so much hated world in despair
In hysterical laughter there occurred to be
A little room for disbelief
Whose other end vanished in the dark
Where moments fought and trod on one another
They later perched on branches meant just for them.
The mouth
Devoured the laughter and agreed to be stroked
By disbelief that
Right there was their shape


Fairfield Porter, Apples and Roses, Oil on Canvas, 1967

How is it possible you ask
You wake up in the morning
And the first thing you feel
Is subtle rosiness of roses
Annoying gall cuts thru from behind
The room is tumbling somewhere into greyness
In the background
Massive serenity floats down
From the indifferent roof onto
Lustful apples and right there
Blood is carried

You say it should be marked anew but
I suppose
A sketch is more important
Without exaggerated beauty


I had invented an utterance that commenced
And completed. In the pitch dark
Rustling noises of the coming
And going. The words focusing in
Focusing out. Somewhere, in the middle,
The sense weighted the presence.
The sentence was ready
To disappear leaving unconsciousness
A little anxious and comforting.
No more noise.
Intuition, unaccentuated, devoid of

Monday, 22 September 2008


what is it? well, contrary to popular belief there is a plethora of answers, most of them confusing and none satisfying enough, methinx.
let's just consider several suggestions off the cuff.
- is it a candle 'burning bright in the shadows of the night'? well it is and of course it isn't. do u fancy open flame inside your hardware?
- sure, it is a snapshot of an object made of stearin (a glyceryl ester of stearic acid, derived from animal fats created as a byproduct of processing beef used as tallow in the manufacture of candles). well partly, as it is not a photograph;
- yes it is a sought-after artifact - oil on canvas by gerhard richter, or rather its representation on a computer screen as i still have to wake up in the middle of the night at the break of dawn to earn a living, so no it's not a richter at all;
- yes it is one ray of light (an idealised beam) after another leaving signals for the eye to detect them;
- it surely is a result of billions of actions taken unconsciously by somebody called me so that eventually i could realise i'm LOOKING AT SOMETHING and name the agent, the action, the object and the relationships within the holy trinity;
- it is a lie of the mind (Lie of the Mind - a brilliant collection of plays by Sam Shepard, a must);
- nothing is real everything is possible - William S. Burroughs;
... and it has only just started ...