m o r n i n g . m a g i c

Morning has broken. Young sun is celebrating the trees. The birds are chirping around the sunlit leaves. Air is thin and the light is transparent. The particles in the air are glittering like star dust. Night owls and other shady characters are gone and the 'health-enthusiasts' are jogging like Labrador retrievers. The air has the magical smell of a new born baby's breath. Everything is appearing in front of us so fresh as though for the first time. A new planet is born every morning.

Slowly sun begins to climb up. People are starting chores and running around with their 'to-do' lists. Business as usual takes over. Then around noon, as if the day is having a mid-life crisis, everything slowly becomes mundane as the lighting becomes ordinary, the freshness disappears and the day starts looking flat like a dry, dusty, grey wall.

Is this all just one perception of an urban mid-day, or is the magic still in the air, hiding somewhere?

Photo: 'Near Rothko Chapel, Houston'/ Sebastian©2009

n o i s e . c a n c e l i n g

I like my head phones with the noise-canceling feature. The in-flight hum is not there any more. The head phone neutralizes the outside noise by producing a counter noise which is barely audible. Not a very perfect technology, I agree. But it works; well, almost. What if in a noisy downtown apartment, install a machine which sucks all the noise around and brings total silence to the space. That would be ideal. But a person who has developed a skill to be one with silence even right in the middle of chaotic noise is, shall we say, 'device independent'?

On the other hand, many of us are afraid of silence and addicted to noise. If there is no talk going on in a get together, it is commonly called an 'awkward silence'. We are comfortable with the noise of the mind which is that of chatter. Hum of the mind, the perpetual 'thought generator', is considered normal.

If a monk starts hearing ringing sounds inside his ear during meditations, in some schools of practice, it is considered as a sign of his arrival at a higher level. Either in deep silence his mind is sharp enough to listen to his own neurons firing in the brain or the blood flowing through arteries; or he is hearing a sound which is not at all there. Who knows?

Sometimes words are not needed to convey something; or spoken language is inadequate. Lovers can communicate silently. Mothers and children can also do this. Masters and mystics have the history of communicating through silence. There is something meaningful about the deep silence of a Buddha. Ramana Maharshi was known for his silent initiations.

One thing is true; it is a powerful state of mind to be silent on command, as if one has found the off switch to shut the mind up so that it won't take over the sharpness of our awareness.

graphic: 'waves' /sebastian©2009

l a b y r i n t h

One analogy came to my mind is that life is like a complex labyrinth placed in the middle of an arena. We enter the Colosseum, wander around, excited in the beginning to see the curious pathways and hidden openings. The surprises that await in the next turn keep us hooked.

By making choices, applying micro analysis, digging deep holes and new tunnels, selecting the best and competing to acquire more; we are toiling to move forward. During this process, we are making the labyrinth more complex. All the 'upgrades' and 'developments' through generations, have made it a complicated build up. Now the structure has already taken over the function, whatever it was supposed to be.

This Colosseum has five gates like five sense organs. The pathways of the maze are like brain foldings. One can get an areal view of the whole labyrinth up from the gallery steps. The more upward one climbs the less complex the maze will be, because one can see the structure vividly from up above.

During the frenzy of the rat-race, once in a while one gets the glimpses of the steps. But the call of the enchanted maze and the desire to get into it keep one trapped in the labyrinth. It's easy to walk up the steps and sit there to observe and enjoy the whole drama. Then the story seems less spicy, or there is no story to it at all.

We all are hooked to spices, I guess.

Labyrinth: (Classical Mythology) A vast maze built in Crete by Daedalus, at the command of King Minos, to house the Minotaur.

graphic collage: 'mind bend'/ watercolour/ sebastian©2009

i n t o . s o m e t h i n g

She said, “ Looking at your latest, I think you are into something here.” I felt assured about my own assumptions as my work was almost taking a new turn. But “into something”, needed more clarification, and that did not happen. Then she added,
“at first I was not into it, now when I look at it again, it grows on me, now I am liking it. I love it”
“Great! but why?” “I can not figure out exactly why, right now”, she said.
I was left with my own devices for the whole evening.

It is difficult to look at my own work as someone else's. The final product is not what I see. I have vivid memories of the whole process. So the moment I see the completed work, everything I had gone through flashes in my mind and I can not separate myself from it. It may be possible after a long period of time; years may be. But the 'into something' factor is very important. This is the moment I hit that particular 'note'. That is the base 'note' for my next composition. It is not a high note or a lower one. Hitting a unique note happens when a 'letting go' moment comes, after a long period of hard work. The structured period brings something fluid and dynamic later. So let me hold on to this into something for now.

The rules in art are created by us and that freedom makes it risky. Convictions are formed when concepts start materializing right in front of us. If we do not say no to art, that means yes. I think when one do not have anything else to trust or to depend on, the total commitment comes naturally; no choice there. If I say I am an artist; then I am, and I start feeling like one. The work proves it along the way. Anything we value determines our life. I think and feel art. That's it.

________________________________________
"Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow. Don't walk behind me, I may not lead. Walk beside me and be my friend."
(Albert Camus)

photo: 'the rock' /irving texas /2009©sebastian

t h i n . a i r

I am sitting in this park bench.
It feels like I am melting into thin air.
Am I here now, or am I vanishing slowly?
Let me pinch my arm or punch myself hard
Let me yell and scream at the top of my lungs
and kick my left leg with the right one,
to know my real placement in this space.

I pass through the space silently
even when I am sitting in this park bench.
And the space is passing through me, each moment
even though I am a part of everything around me.

The path in front is grounding the space above it
and the particles in the beams of sun glitter like memories.
I move forward like a dolphin in the ocean or a bird in the clouds.
My left and right are co-ordinated in a perfect space-balance
and the floor below and axis above my head place me right here.
I am supposed to be here, this moment; otherwise I would not be.

If I expand and dissolve; with a "poof!",

I would be vanished into thin air, just like that.
It won't make any noise at all, may be a subtle swish!
No proof of me being here would be remaining afterwards.
No vacuum would be felt and no memory would be left.
Not even the traces of my dreams would be in the air!

Is this a choice? why am I anxious?
Am I to forgive myself and let me go?
If I do it, will I be able to return intact,
and will all be fine afterwards?
When all things are considered,
I still strongly suggest to myself,
better to surrender now than later.


photo: 'park bench' / irving texas /sebastian©2009

f a r . a n d . n e a r

The boy grew up hearing it every day, this magical sound
coming from the mountains up above his home in the valley.
It was more audible and sweet during the day breaks.
Though feeble and subtle, it always gave him some hope.
Every morning he would wait in bed to listen for it.
He grew up thinking it as a graceful thing in his life.

When he became a young man, one morning he decided
to climb the mountain, the source of this celestial euphony.
It took a long time and hard work for him to reach at the peak
and the sound became louder as he was approaching the top.

Then he saw there were these two trees rubbing each other!
When came closer the screeching sound was unbearable!




*The seed of this story came from an old Iranian friend.
Photo: 'way to Kanyakumari' /India /sebastian©2009

h u m

It was a bright west coast evening.
I was having dinner with a friend
in the garden of a Mexican restaurant.
There was a cute humming bird around.

The humming bird looked like she was standing in the air
as her wings were almost invisible with the speed...
I could almost hear the humming of the bird's wings.
Yes, there was a whisper of a hum there, for sure.

When do the humans hum usually?
The person who is bored hum sometimes.
It can also happen in a relaxed setting.
Humming might be a sign of being in
an uncomfortable situation in which,
out of nervousness, a person starts humming.
There are spiritual humming and mourning ones
and there are enchanting ones those of
a mother easing a child gently into slumber.

photo: 'humming bird' / Malibu/ sebastian©2009

g o t . l u c k y !

The reflections of dancing lights in the canal
The abstract movements of colorful highlights
The molecules of water are enjoying the dance
As the lights are also encouraging the reflections

The wavy sway of tall grass in the distant prairie,
The wild flowers bloom with an orgasmic shudder
both the sides of highways, the Blue Bonnets of Texas pride
as the last of bees on their way to extinction have got lucky!

t i m e . c r u n c h!

When we are young, our aspiration about an exciting future is the strong driving force. Too many places to go, people to meet, too many things to do. There are too many choices in front. It takes a big chunk of our lives to find out what we are really good at, if at all we find that 'call' in life. Then we need more time to master the skills to do it perfect. This 'time crunch' humans face is very real for us, even when there are other ways of looking at the concept of 'time' in our life. It shows that the 'feeling' of life is more true and real than analyzing its various aspects. Analysis has a delay in real time where as feeling happens in the now.

"Time does not exist as we know it,

it's just a construct of the mind" -Etkhart Tolle


photocollage: 'young faces' /students of a high school in Arizona /2007©sebastian

w e t . p a t h

What is the meaning of this place?
Where is this path leading to?
Who is waiting around the corner?
What is the time now?
What is time?
Now?

Wet air whispers to the path,
what 's today's price for sea salt?

Photo: Kerala, India /sebastian©2007

p o i n t e r

Mister 'analyst' the senior was walking with an apprentice
and the young chap pointed at the full moon like a zen master.
The senior turned his face the other way and said,
"Full moon is good for the rich and the romantic.
I stopped even noticing her long time ago!"



photo-graphic: 'waterblues' / pacific /sebastian©2009

t w o . s i d e s

Two types of people are there.

One that is strongly identified with the perception of this world through five sense organs. They don't have any doubts about the material reality of this existence as they feel it and as they know it. They do not believe in it unless it is proven by perception of hearing, tasting, smelling, seeing and touching. Sensory pleasures are the only source of happiness for them. When the sense organs are dissolved completely at death, that is it; they are not ready to accept anything more than that.

The second group is those who happened to have gone to the edges of this realm of perception. They have already peeped into the mystery of the unknown. Whether it was blissful or not, they have felt it and that is the reason they believe in it. They have crossed a threshold. A near death experience or a similar intense one changed their lives for good, or early on they had that ability to look beyond. If it was a passing fancy or curious case of sensations, it would not have changed them. Some profound process has already started within them. It can be felt in their presence.

The ones from the first group may move into the second at times, but ones from the second group moving back to the first seem almost impossible. If anyone is in a predicament of moving between the two, either they would squander their lives or they would become masters who skillfully able to integrate the two groups.

photo-graphics: 'lake texoma' /aug.3 /sebastian©2009

y o u . a n d . m e

You are there, now you are not.

Which is real and which is unreal?

What happened to you, really?

or are you the memory of you?

When did I see you first?

Do I know you after all these years?

You are not the same you, I am sure.

Well, you are here now,

I can see you and touch you.

I can hear you and smell you.

But are you really here?

Who are you,

really?

On the other hand,

Am I here now?

and who am I,

Really?

photo: 'who?' / summer/ texas /reena©2009

S t o r y b o a r d

Comic books and movies need preliminary sketches and storyboards. The final cut is drawn out based on this blueprints. Similarly, each person has sketched out his or her life story. Even when one's narrative is an ever evolving one, this main story line is always there as a backdrop. Memories about childhood, younger period, friends, parents, major incidents and places; the narrative around these, reinstates this projection. This identification is one's identity. There is the urge to maintain the basic status quo.

The drama in the story is dormant most of the time but when activated it spices up the narrative. Thoughts, memories, emotions, words, decisions, and actions and all the karmas dance around this narrative. As one is locked into this story line, it is almost like a commitment. There is no way one can drop it. Certain patterns of thought processes and similar acquaintances evolve that suit the story one believes in and life as a story goes on.

When once in a while one steps out of this maze and rises above to get a bird's eye view of it, certain questions arise. Is this story real? Have our memories really the recorded sharply how everything exactly happened? Even if it is pretty close to the real, how real is the perception about it? Or isn't it just one version of it? After one had recorded these memories how-many times one had recalled and modified the narrative? When the latest version is recalled, how far fetched is it from what really happened?

As years go by, this story becomes deeply etched in our psyche and one feels empty without it. That emptiness is one trying not to face. Even the story can be a distraction we create not face this abyss. Is there a way to disassociate oneself from attaching fear to nothingness and be blissful about it? Can one start enjoying the freedom of the void?

What if one drops this story one fine morning and start on a blank slate? or carry no slate at all? no name, no identity, no drama and no story; is it possible?

t h e . c a v e

The teacher was beaming at me when I went to see him after so many years. His white beard was long and bright like clouds in the evening sun. I gave him the water colours I brought with me. It was an ethereal sunset behind the mountains and he started painting right away. We sat in silence and all the things I wanted to talk and ask him dissipated into the soft air between us. His presence was melting through me and I did not feel like uttering a single word.

As the time passed, twilight faded into the mountain range and the sky was turning maroon-red like the wardrobe of a Tibetan monk. I showed the gesture to leave as it was getting late. He beamed at me again and said, "Wait, you should go to this cave down at the foothills and sit there for a while before you leave. A sufi saint lived there long time ago." I was hesitant and a bit concerned as it was getting dark and I knew those hills were infested with snakes. However I decided to go down the valley, and found the cave after looking around. I sat there on a rock inside the cave for a while, wondering why the master asked me to do this.

Later I stepped into the night assuming my path forward. Left to my own devices, I am still toiling to navigate through the realms of 'the hungry ghosts'. I often wonder about that last meeting with my remarkable teacher and his style of conveying the message. A mystic one definitely has his ways of pointing to the mysteries.

graphics: 'farewell' /sebastian©2009