It was a rainy night last and I tip toed across the glistening concrete path.
The pathway was crowded with earthworms moving slowmotionly, seemingly without any purpose besides their joy of embracing the rain.
I stopped my movement and stood there for a moment watching them in my turquoise green rain suit protecting me from the heaven water.
A strong wind came along and blew an earthworm across the pathway.
A smile came upon my face and I marvelled at the earthworm rolling around in the weather having given up its home in the ground to venture into the great unknown.
I stumbled across a news article the other day about a Ukranian heavyweight boxing champion:
The champ had just won a title belt and was pictured victorious beside his bleeding and visibly injured opponent.
The champ revealed his great love in life: Ironing shirts.
Whenever he checked into a hotel the first thing he would do was to order ironing equipment up to his room.
Performing his art of ironing shirts brought the Ukranian Champ to a quiet and calm place, it was truly a state of higher being for him.
He declared that he was by no means a dandy when it came to dressing himself as his grandmother had taught him properly.
From when he was a little boy his grandmother had repeatedly told him:
“It is sufficient for a man to dress just so that he looks slightly better than a monkey”.
Sometimes a trip to a chinese gift store reveals highly amusing treasures.
If I ever find a woman that takes me as her husband this will be my wedding gift to her:
cesco, those are the 1000 coils you are making as an art project,.lined up in your space. i mean your meditational space near the sea. what will come of this project?
You can learn about the pine only from the pine, or about bamboo only from bamboo.
When you see an object, you must leave your subjective preoccupation with yourself; otherwise you impose yourself on the object, and do not learn. The object and yourself must become one, and from that feeling of oneness issues your poetry. However well phrased it may be, if your feeling is not natural—if the object and yourself are separate—then your poetry is not true poetry but merely your subjective counterfeit.
