The Man Who Sits and Folds

He sits in silent zazen, ruminating his methods while it stares back at him, not giving any of its secrets like a sphinx with a riddle with no words. Canopying his existence are the four identical extremities, the hood to the eye. He imagines the timeless truth in that otherwise flat mask, barren from nary idea, thought, or vision. But there is vision, there is more unseen vision than anything else.

He makes his base fold. It says “Let there be light” and “Let there be darkness” at the same time, with an egalitarian crease running down the middle. O what might he must have had, as Atlas might’ve had, to muster a fold of such frondose leafs. And as he dog-ears each spatial dimension, so does he feel experience manifesting and innocence decaying. There has been a concert of pleated designs forming shards of lights and shadow. He has taken folding paths that led to a spiral of descending stairs, sustaining high pressures. There has been prefolds and transfolds, forming ridges and clefts, nadirs and dunes. He has crumbled parts to a skein of glutinous disarray, parts other flaps and folds ought to mind lest its kiss pulls them in its whirlpool of folds and shackles them to its oblivion. He has hinged branches that branched off resembling the crow’s feet behind one’s eyes.

His arms and his neck, and the muscles that ripple from time to time have given fold to his skin. He sees the folds under his skin etching darker and deeper. There’s a koan on every furrow and he doesn’t know when it smiles and when it frowns.

He wants to fold his universe, or more precisely, let his colors and values anchor one another in true synergy, this surmountable edifice constituting not a message but a gesture to what otherwise would have been an impregnable aura. He sits folding one fold at a time, the grand concealment full with thought. He sits folding, eternally patient, some semblance, an effigy to his being and physique, the gift of he.

He sits in silent zazen, serene, patiently waiting to be turned alive by the peruser who shall begin to read and unfold.


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Mother of All Creation, One Day All Time

Today I’m celebrating motherhood by bestowing little gifts to all you Mothers.


To all that bears fruit of the next,
may this day be but a remembrance to you first
one day for all time that’s born
born all time to no end
yet always a start
because you, woman, exist
and if there are as of yet
no fruit or sap, firsting to be
don’t you see,
that man breathes your life
and basks under one reaching tree
mother of love, and so it begins


Happy Mother’s Day

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Funny thing about our basic concepts, a dream

I had a dream last night that I was in an alien planet. Imagine Bonao, from the Dominican Republic, or Maní, with a dash of Iraq; very desert-like, but with villages or small towns that makes if feel Earth-like. The aliens seem carbon-based, but also a bit plastic.

I stood there, in one of the streets, I can see it’s the middle of its day, almost noon, but the places are closed, like a strike happened. It wasn’t a strike. I’m in a place where there’s a war going on.

Still, I see kids playing ball (football-type, football as in soccer). I see people going inside their homes. I tried talking to someone, but I get closed tinned shutters. I meet one boy, well, a guy, a dude, seems younger than me, but of some age. (Funny enough, as a fellow carbon-based human, I can somehow get a sense of their age)

Picture quadcopter AR Drones hovering every once in a while, surveying, bombs going off in the distance, and not so distant. These are alien ships from the other side of the war. I seem to be in the short end of the war.

The ‘dude’ invites me to huddle in what I can translate as an abandoned cafe or cafeteria. No one’s there except a hand of his pals. I see that one or two of them are not his friends but work together for the common survival. The one he doesn’t get along with seem to have gear and tendril-like cables, a helmet. The ceiling is woodwork, so because the scaffold being ripped by wind from the warring ships, we can see patches of the ships without being noticed.

I’m utterly horrified! But I make myself relax by seeing how relaxed everyone else is. They seem nice enough too. Who cares what kind of alien I am as long as I’m with them.

And just like that, the dude, the one guy I can see myself being friends with, is zapped. Just like that. He shriveled into a shard of plastic sheet. I carried him, laying him on a table like a ripped napkin.

I begin to cry. I tell the rest that he was the closest thing to a friend in this planet. And just like he got zapped, one of the guys slams his hand, palm to the plastic. BAM! Without a hitch, he says “He’s dead. Crying for the dead is useless.”

I saw their faces, their vitriol reactions to my reaction. This whole sinking feeling got to me, that their words and faces aren’t doing their culture, their morals, and their situation justice, that there’s way more than this surface level of the concept of the dead and that I have my work cut out. I get this unnerving feeling that as part of the human race I’m getting the concept of death wrong, not in a basic level but in it’s complicated filigree.

I wake up from my dream with a new scope in life!

And now I’m sharing it to you. There are so many variations to the concept of death. My dream was an alien dream that taught me that I must remain open to the fact that I, that us, don’t have all the answers, even if we see them in all the examples “on Earth” as common. The concept does not end or begin on Earth. The concept itself is alien.

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Neon Batman in New York City

I’m sitting on the train. The man in front of me is wearing a neon Batman shirt with type (lettering) that looks Korean or Taiwanese (it’s all designy and abstracted, so :-P). I’m guessing it says “Batman”. I think “Neon shirt? Definite foreigner.” He is obviously within the thralls of either sightseeing hard! or from a serious hangout from where the only friends he got in NYC stay. He moves, eyes closed, in dreamland, slops to the front, shoulder to the pole, anchoring it, and his dreamland-infested subconscious churns the muscles of his face into a smile. He must feel comfy. He slops a bit more, pivoted by the pole, a rotating slop. That’s when I see his headphones clinging to his ears like they were claws from a Batarang, his iPhone dangling like a damsel in distress. I tap him on the knee firmly. He looks up. I point. He totes. Thumbs up. Thumbs up.

He came from dreamland, still a bit disoriented, but was so comfy that his eyes begin to close. His eyes open in silent alarm. He curiously looks out of the traincar’s window. It’s his stops! He jets! Before the last bit where I can see of him, by the frame of the traincar door he shoots back towards the inside of the traincar door a “thumbs up”! I, within the thralls of the drunken and the troopers, the late-workers and misplaced souls, clap like as if I’m saying “And there it is everybody!” …Crickets.

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Hearts sets in his eyes

hearts in eyes

Just a little free-association drawing with hearts set in his eyes.

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@Rammerammer: Recall your Nightmare

If you can’t recall your nightmare, it’s not a nightmare. A bad dream is bad indeed, but a nightmare is hell in a dream; you’ll never forget it.

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Art is the Youest You You Can You 001

Art is...

...the youest YOU you can you. ~Rammer

Follow me on
Instagram: @rammerammer.
Twitter: @rammerammer.

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