Everything in the room looks golden. It suddenly becomes apparent to her that time, contrary to what she has always believed, is not linear. There is something about the atmosphere and this particular experience which crystallizes the realization, and she wonders if those watching her can see it somehow register in her frozen face. It is partially the strange combination of silence and music, the clinking of paintbrushes on glass palettes and the roughness of brushes on canvas which evoke it. Wisps of Belle and Sebastian are occasionally audible from the back of the room, a flute or violin strain fleetingly meshed with a whimsical voice. It is the light and the colour in the room, the chaotic messiness but ultimate serenity of a studio. There is something harmonious in how it all looks and moves, like the visual equivalent of music, composing what could be considered a work of art in itself. Mostly though, it is the stillness transposed against so much movement that sharpens and transforms her perception of time.
She is practicing a type of stillness that is rarely attempted, and as rarely reflected upon. Most people would think that her stillness is nothing next to her nakedness – they imagine that the fear of exposure, judgment, or discomfort would be too all-consuming to ignore. But none of these exist while she is immobile. Instead, she feels as though she is a pool of water, completely transparent and in that instant perfectly still, although the balance is fragile and temporary. And in this moment, she is entirely transparent, for it is perhaps the only moment in which she does not feel a need to do or be anything more than she is. While she sits here, nude and still, she feels as though people look upon her somewhat as they would a tree. A tree has no purpose but to exist, no need to do anything other than be, and is appreciated by all for this simple existence. She wonders why it is that people, for the most part, cannot feel and are not perceived this way. Of course, the fragile peace and openness that she feels so naturally in this instant, pretending to be a tree or a water-pool, will vanish at the end of the session. She will return, as others do, to needing to say, wanting to do, and trying to be something more than herself, to legitimize appreciation of her own rarely-simple existence.
Stillness remains the most significant aspect of sitting, for while the body is held consistently still the mind provides an entirely new experience. It is a pity that the majority of people will never know what it feels like to be perfectly still for any stretch of time that is longer than natural. In pretending to be so, most will forget their toes or their mouths, and quietly sabotage the effort without even realizing it. But she is utterly exposed, and must remain frozen down to the flicker of an eyelid. Any movement will be noted and resented, so she must forget her own body.
She always begins by staring at the back of the room, and concentrating upon something. Once it was a tree outside the window, another time it was a postcard, and once it was a fascinatingly-shaped explosion of paint on the concrete floor. This is when time begins to slip – it becomes as difficult for her to remain aware of her thoughts as it is to remain unaware of her body. Sometimes, in the midst of floating passively on a stream of thought, she abruptly wakes from her trance with no notion of how long has just passed. When this happens, she often cannot remember where her thoughts had been lingering or why she had felt so comfortable there. Other times, she is painfully aware of every passing second and has to sustain herself by methodically counting backwards from two hundred, or by trying to remember the names of all the people she has ever known. These painful seconds go on and on forever, maybe because there is a cramp in her leg or her cheek is itching, and stillness feels like insanity. Her only consolation during these unbearable moments is the knowledge that she must sooner or later slip again from this state of unnaturally sharpened consciousness into the comfortable rhythm of daydream where she witnesses everything and nothing at once. She is an object but a subject, she sees but doesn’t watch, is present and absent in these three hours-cum-eternity.
The painters study her, moving closer or further, measuring this or that with a squinted eye and a pencil tilted just so. Sometimes they just approach her and stare, memorizing every colour and line, immersed in the complexity of the body. She is reminded of dancers by the way that they move. It is as though they have been accidentally caught up in a choreography they aren’t aware of, unknowingly fabricating an aesthetic experience that exists beyond the canvas. Again, it is peaceful for her, and she thinks that she might like to spend the rest of her life sitting here in this chair, absorbed in the insubstantial and involuntary meanderings of her mind. Briefly she wonders if she has been sitting here forever, or if the entirety of her life has just occurred within her mind during the past hour. Strangely, the idea does not disturb her in the least. But of course this thought slips, and she is lost, and she begins counting backwards from two hundred.
written by Nicole Gaasenbeek
29.12.09
23.12.09
The Day I Moved Out
I met a young blonde in a bar. For barely knowing each other we were hitting it off very well. She had said “if you love ethical philosophy so much, just move back in with your parents.” That sentence triggered a memory. Right in front of her my mind drifted from the present. I was reminded of a young boy...
It’s 7:26 and his alarm has been ringing for the past minute. How he hates Monday mornings. He gets up and smashes his alarm clock off. He is now stooped over, sitting on the side of his bed. He looks like he’s pouting but really, he’s just half-asleep. He has math first period this week, with gym coming at the very end of the day. Math first thing in the morning is the worst.
He hates math, and were he given a choice, would never attend another math class ever again. But he has to take grade 11 math, it is a mandatory course as defined by the government’s curriculum. Curriculum, he thinks, is just another word for dictator.
He is downstairs, eating cereal. His mother, who he knows has been up for much longer than he, comes up from the basement. Her office is down there. She says good morning, and, without hesitation, he does the same. It is only after she continues on her way upstairs that he realizes what he has done. He feels miserable this morning and instantly regrets implying otherwise by using that phrase. His mind begins to drift, a sort of escape from his uneasy stomach. He begins to wonder why it was he wished his mother a good morning. He certainly didn’t mean it. Yet, nor did he even mean to say it. It just happened, without any good reason. Another curriculum, he figures.
Suddenly he is reminded of his stomach. It is the sound of his alarm; every time he hears it he feels uneasy. It is being forced, mid dream, from bed. The alarm cuts through his dreams every weekday morning at 7:25. 7:25 because that is the latest he can wake and still make it to his 8:15 first period class. 8:15 has been chosen, again, by those same mysterious forces behind the curriculum. He feels very small in the face of all these forces in his life. All those forces which have led him to now, saying good morning with an upset stomach.
He has finished his cereal, and is now looking into his bowl of milk. His mind is blank.
He hears his mother and she seems upset. “It’s 8:20! You’re late you silly boy”. He is not sure why she is upset. This is not her decision, nor does it have any real effects on her. He is 5 minutes late for one period on one day in his grade 11 year. He does not think this decision, to stare at his milk instead of at a chalkboard, will have much influence on the outcome of the rest of his life. However, his mother seems to think otherwise. She has been good to him, and so he treats her with respect.
“I don’t mean any harm, Mom, but I just don’t feel like going today. I’ve decided to stay home.”
“Nick you’re only 17! You can’t decide things like this. I am certainly not signing an absence note for you.”
“You can decide to sign or not sign, I will not try and change your mind. All I ask is the same respect from you. I have made a decision.” She has become visibly angry. Her face is slightly red, and he can hear her breathing now.
“Don’t start with me young man. You are going to class and that’s final. Do not test me Nick.”
“Mom I’m not doing this as a test. My decision actually has nothing to do with you. It’s just that I realized today I have no reason for going. I can’t see the why.”
“Ok, fine. It is your decision to go to class or not, but know this: it’s my decision whether you can go on the computer or sleep over at AJ’s this weekend.”
Silently he gets up and gets dressed for class.
He is in math class, fighting to stay awake. His body so desperately wants to go back to sleep. As he sits, he starts to think. Again, it is a sort of escape from the situation. He wonders why his mother was so steadfast on him attending class. He wonders why the curriculum is so steadfast on him being in math. He wonders why 8:15. Why not 10:00? Why not a philosophy class? Why not let him stay home?
He wonders so much he suddenly finds himself wondering the opposites. Why not go to class? Why not math over philosophy? What is his problem with everything? These questions he finds much more interesting. The answers to these questions all seem to have something to do with a ‘just because’. For instance, why not math over philosophy can be answered because he enjoys philosophy more. The reason for this is just because. This scares him because he has always thought ‘just because’ was the answer of the dictators in his life. Perhaps life is just a series of choices, between internal and external dictators? What an interesting view on freedom, he thinks to himself.
He has returned home. He knows what he must do. He will never be free from dictators. The difference between things he wants to do and things he doesn’t isn’t the reasons why, for they are all ‘just becauses’. The difference is between internal and external dictators, so that his wants are internal dictators, with everything else coming externally. He wonders if all the external dictators in his life are the offshoot of other people’s internal ones, so that he has to study math because of other people’s internal dictates to learn math. He wonders if an internal dictator is another word for a value. All this he wonders as he packs his bags. He wonders it as he goes downstairs and knocks on his mother’s office door. He is still wondering it when he hugs her, and, thanking her for raising him, tells her he is leaving. She begins to cry and as she does his mind begins to drift, a sort of escape.
It’s 7:26 and his alarm has been ringing for the past minute. How he hates Monday mornings. He gets up and smashes his alarm clock off. He is now stooped over, sitting on the side of his bed. He looks like he’s pouting but really, he’s just half-asleep. He has math first period this week, with gym coming at the very end of the day. Math first thing in the morning is the worst.
He hates math, and were he given a choice, would never attend another math class ever again. But he has to take grade 11 math, it is a mandatory course as defined by the government’s curriculum. Curriculum, he thinks, is just another word for dictator.
He is downstairs, eating cereal. His mother, who he knows has been up for much longer than he, comes up from the basement. Her office is down there. She says good morning, and, without hesitation, he does the same. It is only after she continues on her way upstairs that he realizes what he has done. He feels miserable this morning and instantly regrets implying otherwise by using that phrase. His mind begins to drift, a sort of escape from his uneasy stomach. He begins to wonder why it was he wished his mother a good morning. He certainly didn’t mean it. Yet, nor did he even mean to say it. It just happened, without any good reason. Another curriculum, he figures.
Suddenly he is reminded of his stomach. It is the sound of his alarm; every time he hears it he feels uneasy. It is being forced, mid dream, from bed. The alarm cuts through his dreams every weekday morning at 7:25. 7:25 because that is the latest he can wake and still make it to his 8:15 first period class. 8:15 has been chosen, again, by those same mysterious forces behind the curriculum. He feels very small in the face of all these forces in his life. All those forces which have led him to now, saying good morning with an upset stomach.
He has finished his cereal, and is now looking into his bowl of milk. His mind is blank.
He hears his mother and she seems upset. “It’s 8:20! You’re late you silly boy”. He is not sure why she is upset. This is not her decision, nor does it have any real effects on her. He is 5 minutes late for one period on one day in his grade 11 year. He does not think this decision, to stare at his milk instead of at a chalkboard, will have much influence on the outcome of the rest of his life. However, his mother seems to think otherwise. She has been good to him, and so he treats her with respect.
“I don’t mean any harm, Mom, but I just don’t feel like going today. I’ve decided to stay home.”
“Nick you’re only 17! You can’t decide things like this. I am certainly not signing an absence note for you.”
“You can decide to sign or not sign, I will not try and change your mind. All I ask is the same respect from you. I have made a decision.” She has become visibly angry. Her face is slightly red, and he can hear her breathing now.
“Don’t start with me young man. You are going to class and that’s final. Do not test me Nick.”
“Mom I’m not doing this as a test. My decision actually has nothing to do with you. It’s just that I realized today I have no reason for going. I can’t see the why.”
“Ok, fine. It is your decision to go to class or not, but know this: it’s my decision whether you can go on the computer or sleep over at AJ’s this weekend.”
Silently he gets up and gets dressed for class.
He is in math class, fighting to stay awake. His body so desperately wants to go back to sleep. As he sits, he starts to think. Again, it is a sort of escape from the situation. He wonders why his mother was so steadfast on him attending class. He wonders why the curriculum is so steadfast on him being in math. He wonders why 8:15. Why not 10:00? Why not a philosophy class? Why not let him stay home?
He wonders so much he suddenly finds himself wondering the opposites. Why not go to class? Why not math over philosophy? What is his problem with everything? These questions he finds much more interesting. The answers to these questions all seem to have something to do with a ‘just because’. For instance, why not math over philosophy can be answered because he enjoys philosophy more. The reason for this is just because. This scares him because he has always thought ‘just because’ was the answer of the dictators in his life. Perhaps life is just a series of choices, between internal and external dictators? What an interesting view on freedom, he thinks to himself.
He has returned home. He knows what he must do. He will never be free from dictators. The difference between things he wants to do and things he doesn’t isn’t the reasons why, for they are all ‘just becauses’. The difference is between internal and external dictators, so that his wants are internal dictators, with everything else coming externally. He wonders if all the external dictators in his life are the offshoot of other people’s internal ones, so that he has to study math because of other people’s internal dictates to learn math. He wonders if an internal dictator is another word for a value. All this he wonders as he packs his bags. He wonders it as he goes downstairs and knocks on his mother’s office door. He is still wondering it when he hugs her, and, thanking her for raising him, tells her he is leaving. She begins to cry and as she does his mind begins to drift, a sort of escape.
10.12.09
5.12.09
In Search of Songbirds
The sun was bright and the wind was warm enough to enjoy. Today is a day that gains its strength from its cold predecessors; the first real day of spring. The first day, when the tired white blankets of snow have recessed far enough to give the earth breath. Finally, I can see grass. I can feel the warmth of the sun and I can hear hidden birds singing me on my way. I’ve got a happiness growing like an apple just beneath my throat. On my way to nowhere in particular, I’m walking simply to enjoy the weather. I think of what a wonderful gift this world is, how even the most ardent pessimist would work up a sweat trying to deny the happiness growing with the grass. As I walk birds form a corridor of chirps, one with the bare branches they sing from. I try to catch sight of one, but alas, they seem to have burrowed back into their trees, seeds for tomorrow's tune.
Anyway, the petal is always prettier than the root. As I walk on, I let my mind follow. I start wondering what lies beneath everything I see. Elusive birds are only the tip of a much larger mystery. I wonder what gives rise to this pleasure coming from the earth. Where does it exist? Metaphors of flowers can only get one so far, but perhaps that’s far enough. I take a deep breath, fully immersed in the pleasant mysteries of the earth. Indeed the moment proves to be more than its rationale could ever, as I continue on, open to everything the breeze brings my way. I walk, following an invisible thread, my mind a floating leaf. I’ve come to a park. Without really knowing why (perhaps there is no reason) I sit down at a bench. From this spot chirps and swaying shadows fall one into the other, as I feel the minutes meld into hours being marked down silently on a watch left at home. A couple has sat down across from me. The man seems restless, unhappy with the decision to sit down. "I still prefer the winter. It’s so much simpler in the winter."
"What is, dear?" The woman seemed used to such cryptic pessimism. She was busy looking for the birds hidden in a nearby tree.
"In the winter the world, it’s like a blank easel. There aren’t as many distractions. I find it easier to work in the winter, uninterrupted from the simpler people of this city, all struck with that fever that seems to creep hidden underneath the first half decent day." She didn’t seem patient enough for this, offering no response. "The sun is still the sun in winter, the leaves and birds are just sleeping. Why is it these fools aren’t so enthused each day, when it is so clear that the earth never actually changes?"
"They’re not hurting anyone, dear. A smile doesn't do anything but good, even on a strangers face."
"They are hurting me. They have their marches, their rallies, their charity drives. Save the owls, always recycle, plant more trees. They’re always pulling my attention from my studio out to their imaginary holy land. Since when did human activity, or any form of destruction for that matter, exist outside of nature?"
It seemed she was as perplexed as I was. She put on a half smile and just looked at a patch of grass. "Are they wrong for being happy, then?"
"They aren’t wrong, they are just foolish. Find happiness in all of the earth, or none. One can’t pick favourites like this, or at least not without acknowledgement of their arbitrariness. What is it about a whale that makes it worth more than a cancer? It’s selfishness under the guise of humble servitude.” He fell silent with a sharp and sour look. “They use ‘we’ as a polite cover up of a strictly ‘I’ mentality." He seemed to have had this on his mind for some time. He was visibly worked up. During his speech he had procured a cigar from his pocket, and was now spitting up smoke, angry like a blizzard.
The whole time I had been growing more and more impatient with this man. How dare he call a love of one's environment selfish. What was selfish was to think the earth existed as an obstacle of one’s work. He was the one who was picking favourites, not us. What was it about his work that was so important? I was so worked up I got up from my bench and asked him exactly that. He was quite surprised. I imagined in the look he gave me I saw a realization akin to love. This man had realized he wasn’t an island; I had brought him down from his ivory tower. He looked at me and seemed to think for a while. Perhaps I had done it, I had shown him his error. He was wrong to say those things. One can’t help but feel happy on days like today. How could it be any clearer that this world is worth protecting, that we should ‘plant more trees’, as he had put it.
He interrupted my thoughts and asked me if stealing a loaf of bread was always wrong. Although a bit surprised, I was feeling generous, and so I played along. "I think it would be wrong most of the time. There would, of course, be certain circumstances that I think anyone would agree excuse such actions." The man was staring at the ground a few feet from us. He didn't seem to even be listening.
"Could the same be said of cutting down a tree?" I knew this was coming. I had seen it a mile away. I was quick with my response.
"But never for cutting down the last tree. A tree is useful, but the idea of a tree is more so. If we lose touch with what a tree is, we lose what makes us human." The man was lost for words. He just sat there, not moving. I wonder if he even blinked.
Then, slowly, with a calm smile, he responded. "You speak of humanity, but that word must feel clumsy in your mouth as a taboo. What makes us human is our humanity, it is us. We were never given anything from this world. Some just choose to discredit themselves, their own creative powers, through an odd sort of ascetic, self-limiting faith. Wake up sleeper, we are at war with this earth. It is constantly killing people I know, people I love, and it is people like you who are letting it. Someday, when the earth has won by forfeit, and the oh-so-precious last tree stands to mark the grave of humanity, maybe then you'll understand, all too late. We are, and have always been, what we make of ourselves. We write our own definitions. So serve your god if you like, build your green temples and preach your naturalistic dogmas. Keep on praying for your salvation, and die happy to serve the worms you so vehemently worship. Be proud, knowing you are the only creatures on this earth to give up the challenge we are all born into. I, on the other hand, shall continue painting. I shall keep on fighting to create my humanity."
With that he left, leaving the woman and I sharing a silence neither had expected. I promptly started my walk home, this park being tainted by that man. As I walked, the day was still inviting, the sun was still warm and the breeze still playful. By the time I arrived home my mind had been cleansed by the earth, the man was as distant as last summer's leaves.
I stop outside an old oak tree on my front yard; my old oak tree, my favourite tree. As I listen to the tree's birds, trying to catch a glimpse of them, a sudden screech of a nearby crow interrupts the songbird's music. I leave in disgust, wanting to avoid the crow’s scratchy interruptions.
Written by Ben Bousada
Anyway, the petal is always prettier than the root. As I walk on, I let my mind follow. I start wondering what lies beneath everything I see. Elusive birds are only the tip of a much larger mystery. I wonder what gives rise to this pleasure coming from the earth. Where does it exist? Metaphors of flowers can only get one so far, but perhaps that’s far enough. I take a deep breath, fully immersed in the pleasant mysteries of the earth. Indeed the moment proves to be more than its rationale could ever, as I continue on, open to everything the breeze brings my way. I walk, following an invisible thread, my mind a floating leaf. I’ve come to a park. Without really knowing why (perhaps there is no reason) I sit down at a bench. From this spot chirps and swaying shadows fall one into the other, as I feel the minutes meld into hours being marked down silently on a watch left at home. A couple has sat down across from me. The man seems restless, unhappy with the decision to sit down. "I still prefer the winter. It’s so much simpler in the winter."
"What is, dear?" The woman seemed used to such cryptic pessimism. She was busy looking for the birds hidden in a nearby tree.
"In the winter the world, it’s like a blank easel. There aren’t as many distractions. I find it easier to work in the winter, uninterrupted from the simpler people of this city, all struck with that fever that seems to creep hidden underneath the first half decent day." She didn’t seem patient enough for this, offering no response. "The sun is still the sun in winter, the leaves and birds are just sleeping. Why is it these fools aren’t so enthused each day, when it is so clear that the earth never actually changes?"
"They’re not hurting anyone, dear. A smile doesn't do anything but good, even on a strangers face."
"They are hurting me. They have their marches, their rallies, their charity drives. Save the owls, always recycle, plant more trees. They’re always pulling my attention from my studio out to their imaginary holy land. Since when did human activity, or any form of destruction for that matter, exist outside of nature?"
It seemed she was as perplexed as I was. She put on a half smile and just looked at a patch of grass. "Are they wrong for being happy, then?"
"They aren’t wrong, they are just foolish. Find happiness in all of the earth, or none. One can’t pick favourites like this, or at least not without acknowledgement of their arbitrariness. What is it about a whale that makes it worth more than a cancer? It’s selfishness under the guise of humble servitude.” He fell silent with a sharp and sour look. “They use ‘we’ as a polite cover up of a strictly ‘I’ mentality." He seemed to have had this on his mind for some time. He was visibly worked up. During his speech he had procured a cigar from his pocket, and was now spitting up smoke, angry like a blizzard.
The whole time I had been growing more and more impatient with this man. How dare he call a love of one's environment selfish. What was selfish was to think the earth existed as an obstacle of one’s work. He was the one who was picking favourites, not us. What was it about his work that was so important? I was so worked up I got up from my bench and asked him exactly that. He was quite surprised. I imagined in the look he gave me I saw a realization akin to love. This man had realized he wasn’t an island; I had brought him down from his ivory tower. He looked at me and seemed to think for a while. Perhaps I had done it, I had shown him his error. He was wrong to say those things. One can’t help but feel happy on days like today. How could it be any clearer that this world is worth protecting, that we should ‘plant more trees’, as he had put it.
He interrupted my thoughts and asked me if stealing a loaf of bread was always wrong. Although a bit surprised, I was feeling generous, and so I played along. "I think it would be wrong most of the time. There would, of course, be certain circumstances that I think anyone would agree excuse such actions." The man was staring at the ground a few feet from us. He didn't seem to even be listening.
"Could the same be said of cutting down a tree?" I knew this was coming. I had seen it a mile away. I was quick with my response.
"But never for cutting down the last tree. A tree is useful, but the idea of a tree is more so. If we lose touch with what a tree is, we lose what makes us human." The man was lost for words. He just sat there, not moving. I wonder if he even blinked.
Then, slowly, with a calm smile, he responded. "You speak of humanity, but that word must feel clumsy in your mouth as a taboo. What makes us human is our humanity, it is us. We were never given anything from this world. Some just choose to discredit themselves, their own creative powers, through an odd sort of ascetic, self-limiting faith. Wake up sleeper, we are at war with this earth. It is constantly killing people I know, people I love, and it is people like you who are letting it. Someday, when the earth has won by forfeit, and the oh-so-precious last tree stands to mark the grave of humanity, maybe then you'll understand, all too late. We are, and have always been, what we make of ourselves. We write our own definitions. So serve your god if you like, build your green temples and preach your naturalistic dogmas. Keep on praying for your salvation, and die happy to serve the worms you so vehemently worship. Be proud, knowing you are the only creatures on this earth to give up the challenge we are all born into. I, on the other hand, shall continue painting. I shall keep on fighting to create my humanity."
With that he left, leaving the woman and I sharing a silence neither had expected. I promptly started my walk home, this park being tainted by that man. As I walked, the day was still inviting, the sun was still warm and the breeze still playful. By the time I arrived home my mind had been cleansed by the earth, the man was as distant as last summer's leaves.
I stop outside an old oak tree on my front yard; my old oak tree, my favourite tree. As I listen to the tree's birds, trying to catch a glimpse of them, a sudden screech of a nearby crow interrupts the songbird's music. I leave in disgust, wanting to avoid the crow’s scratchy interruptions.
Written by Ben Bousada
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)