Tértan

The Point

The Alef II

The Alef II

There is a point. I don’t know if physical or psychical. But I think, that if you find that point physically you will find it psychically, too. Yet this point is somewhere over here…

Borges said: the Alef. The One. And not just the beginning: “In Borges’ story, the Aleph is a point in space that contains all other points. Anyone who gazes into it can see everything in the universe from every angle simultaneously, without distortion, overlapping or confusion.” – (full article see here. Full story here)

Borges said: in space. But as in a previous post I asked: What if beyond this place nothing exists? Just you and your brain. Or your soul. Solipsism. — Is solipsism the ultimate state of mind? And in this case my place birth from solipsism is as just in space as Borges’ Alef?

There is a point, that is the sum of all points in the universe.

And I decided to find it. Right here. In this picture. In this place. In this universe.

 

 

ps.: more of point or pointless you should watch here

This is a Hoax

DSC_5078

The Wikipedia says:

„The British philologist Robert Nares (1753–1829) says that the word hoax was coined in the late 18th century as a contraction of the verbhocus, which means “to cheat”,[3] “to impose upon”[3] or “to befuddle often with drugged liquor”.[4] Hocus is a shortening of the magicincantation hocus pocus,[4] which in turn is a contraction of the phrase Hocus pocus, tontus talontus, vade celeriter jubeo, mentioned inThomas Ady‘s 1656 book A candle in the dark, or a treatise on the nature of witches and witchcraft.[5] “

and

„A hoax differs from a magic trick or from fiction (books, moviestheatreradiotelevision, etc.) in that the audience is unaware of being deceived, whereas in watching a magician perform an illusion the audience expects to be tricked.“

Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hoax

 

Let’s celebrate the truth, and nothing but the truth.

By the lake

DSC_0227 copy

It’s spring. You are standing by the lake and all melted. Melted the ice and the snow. Melted the poplars, the creek, the sky. They all spilled, maybe into water. You are standing by the lake, standing on the hills melted into nothingness. An unspecified nothing.

It’s summer. You are standing by the lake and all burned out. Burned out the grass, the road. Burned out the misty dawns, the arid steppes, the days and the nights, and the minutes and the moments. They all burned out, maybe into fire. You are standing by the lake along the road that burned into nowhere.

It’s autumn. You are standing by the lake and all rotted away. Rotted away the fruits, the harvest. Rotted away the colors. Rotted away the rhythm, the melody, the repetition. They all rotted away, maybe into earth. You are standing by the lake on a gossamer rotted away into nothingness.

It’s winter. You are standing by the lake and everything has frozen. Frozen the lake, the reed, the electric wires. Frozen the light and frozen the sound. They all froze, maybe into air. You are standing by the lake in the light frozen into nothingness.

There is? Listen to the shed in autumn aspen leaves rustle, or the ripple on the water under the ice. Curves of the hills repose your eyes, grass could fit your hand. Fog shelters your steps, nights fulfill your days. But there is no lake nor reeds. Neither do aspens. No images on the eye, no sound in the ear. If there would be light, you may say that it’s all white. Or all black. And silence. But there is no silence, neither, it also froze. Lightless, shadowless. Soundless and silentless: the middle of nowhere. An unspecified nothing.

Imagine that there is not. Would grow you a voice. Would you increase you a sound, a taste. A taste, a touch. A touch, a shadow. Would grow you a hope.

——————————————————————–

Imagine that there is.

Buy me. Buy me with a shadow.

8-1

8 poles

We live in a perpetual myth of figures. Yes, we always count. And we count anything. And we create toplists. The 10 best, or worst things in life. Even truth we transform in figures. One is truth. Null is lie.

We transfigure everything in dumb-downed stats. And sociologists are nowadays wizards, interpreting these numbers back telling what they have transformed in figures. And we believe them, because we’ve been taught that 10 is obviously higher than 9. But is 10 really more than 9? We have achievements, results. And we measure them in these easily acceptable entities. Figures don’t have feelings; they don’t mean anything at all. Figures are the most abstract concept of all.

But we also have a life. He lived 89 years, they say. Did his most powerful memory has a figure attached to? Has someone the power to transfigure single emotions, not to mention love. Quality over quantity, they say. But how do you measure quality? Yes, you suppose it well: it lasts longer. It keeps you warmer. It rolls faster. It consumes less. Why don’t we talk only mathematics or statistics. I say 9. You say 10, so you are the winner. Generally speaking: the higher is the figure the better is the quality. Time is passing by, seconds after seconds, and we count and count.

But where are the non-measurable things? Thoughts? Feelings? Endless moments of fear, happiness or joy? Or aesthetical experiences? I wittingly used negative definition for this: non-figurative. Non-measurable. Because if we don’t find a definition of something we have never met, we define it by its antonym. And the circle, apparently is closed.

The image above has 8 poles. This sentence’s truthcontent, looking at the photograph seems to be 1. 8-1. But are these figures really essential when you face an artwork? Or other part of our lives? Is everything transfigurable? Can the figures be retransfigured? Can we disregard, are we able to disregard figures?

Now disregard all the theory above. Just sit down in a place, where are poles. There could be 8 if you’d like. Or more. Or less. Or even without any pole. Count to 10, and start enjoy the sight.

Or just stay. Countless.

When the land is…

When the land is someone. It has no color, or if it has, there is no importance what colour it wears.
When the land becomes a person. And you get caught in a relationshipt with it.
When the land is not a pasture anymore, nor mud, nor woods or anything else that you used to see before.
When the land makes you to close your eyes, and only with your eyes shut you can see its breathing.
When the land is your sleepingpartner, to know its rest, or your chest confines while it is embraced by the morning fog.
When the land needs no colour, shapes, and it transforms in a spirit.
When you find this spirit deep in your inner self.
When the land is you.