arts.i mezz

Friday, April 9, 2010

mountain stories - by Rajbir Singh

Yeah, it's a nice place to stand at, and be witness to these moments, of the trees going down the hill, of the river below, of so many greens, of knowing oneself....coming down the mountain, wrapping onself around the path i would see it happening, a pause and i would wonder, is it created all for me...then a sudden fear of the night approaching, of reaching back home, to the base and looking up and seeing it at night.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

“I did it without any specific intention. Or perhaps what I meant was, that love this very stone, and the river, and all these things we are looking at and from which we can learn. I can love a stone, Govinda, and also a tree or a piece of bark. These are things, and things can be loved. But I cannot love words. Therefore, teachings are no good for me, they have no hardness, no softness, no colours, no edges, no smell, no taste, they have nothing but words. Perhaps it are these which keep you from finding peace, perhaps it are the many works. Because salvation and virtue as well, Sansara and Nirvana as well, are mere words, Govinda. There is no thing which would be Nirvana: there is just the word Nirvana.”

“A thought, it might be so. I must confess to you my dear: I don’t differentiate much between thoughts and words. To be honest, I also have no high opinion of thoughts. I have a better opinion of things. Here on this ferry-boat, for instance, a man has been my predecessor and teacher, a holy man, who has for many years simply believed in the river, nothing else. He had noticed that the river spoke to him, he learned from it, it educated and taught him, the river seemed to be a god to him, for many years he did not know that every wind, every cloud, every bird, every beetle was just as divine and knows just as much and can teach just as much as the worshipped river. But when this holy man went into the forests, he knew everything, knew more than you and me, without teachers, without books, only because he had believed in the river. “

Siddhartha, Herman Hesse

Of what lies beneath

cut and paste
the blade and the glue
I am Drawing
a new story...
of hollow spaces
layers of sand, cement
and clay
water touches me
i am cutting a line
i am writing
a new story...