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SYNERGYZINE IV: WABI-SABI
©2009
SynergyZine IV: Wabi Sabi Table of Contents Cover by Jeremy Atkins Page:
Title:
Artist:
4
Gnarled Oak
Daniel Robles
5
Introduction
SynergyZine Staff
7
Flora 1
Daniel W-B
8
Remnants of my Heart’s Utmost Design
Valerie Chavez
9
Retrospiraldecay
Jeremy Atkins
10
Crocodile Eyes
Justine Filipello
11
A Few Haiku
Michael Warren Grant
13
Swirling Stones
Jarrod Rasalas
14
Sisters
Jessica Pons
15
A Poem Without
Rickey Lee
16
Unity
J. Pons and M.W. Grant
17
Walled Village
Daniel Robles
18
Flora 2
Daniel W-B
19
The Well
Rickey Lee
23
Retrospiraldecay
Jeremy Atkins
24
Lifestrips: 2046
Marc Seestaedt
28
Highliner
Jessica Pons
29
Temporary and Raw…
Valerie Chavez
31
My California Poppy
Rickey Lee
32, 34
A Fall into Night
Michael Warren Grant
33
Joshua Tree Sunset
Ray Pai
35
Back to the Earth
Justine Filipello
36
Credits
SynergyZine Staff
Gnarled Oak-Dani elRobles
Wabi- Sabi Welcome to SynergyZine's latest edition, in which we've channeled the spirit of an ancient Japanese philosophy dubbed “Wabi-Sabi.” Leonard Koren, who has written extensively upon the topic, defines Wabi-Sabi as “a beauty of things imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete. It is a beauty of things modest and humble. It is a beauty of things unconventional.” In the natural world, it is the beauty of a high mountain worn down, a lake slowly made dry, and a noonday sun softly setting. These inevitabilities are for the Wabi-Sabi-ist no less beautiful than those laws which build them up to fullness and bring them into balance. Clearly, this aesthetic nonideal remains unconventional to many Western-oriented minds. A whole philosophic tradition, inherited from Greek antiquity, has taught that symmetric form is more beautiful than asymmetric form, harmony more pleasing than dissonance, and truth more admirable than fiction.
Fullness and brightness, meanwhile, are seen as the ultimate “good� at which all creation should aim. Of course, churches and museums provide a plethora of examples. Stubbornly, the West refuses to see that Wabi-Sabi exists even within itself, neglecting, therefore, the humble yin to its over vigorous yang. For the Wabi-Sabi artist, there is as much beauty found in a warped piece of wood as a smooth plank, or in an irregular clay goblet as a crystal wine glass. Whether with pen, brush, or camera, we've rendered our subjects complete with their alltoo-human flaws and defects. We assure ourselves, such a method will let the organic experience of creation be our main drive, rather than clinging on to the manufactured images of what life and creation should be. Endeavoring to embrace the typo, SynergyZine
Flora1-Dan W i lli amsBaumgart
Remnants of My Heart's Design's Utmost By Valerie Chavez “But to see a good man at rest
standing still there at his post is the heart's design's utmost.” —Confucius
And there it was, remnants of my heart's design's utmost as puddles of crust upon a wrinkled sheet that found its way to the floor through a whirlpool of presses and pulls. And what a sight—that fluid love— Nothing had more a reason more a right, to be so brittle, so exhausted, so vulnerable that a fingernail could crack its shell. And what a martyr of purpose, To journey from the depths of organs, with false hope alive, full force with closed eyes— For the passion to spill into a time-lapsed waif of a cycle, incomplete.
Retrospi raldecay-j eremyatki ns
Crocodi leEyes-J usti neFi li pelo
A Few Haiku By Michael Warren Grant 1 a welcome mistake in her womb, memorial for youth, incarnate 2 dug her a grave yet put another dog in it; don't rush me, she said 3 blew smoke in my face, thought she wanted to fuck but she sought a fight; we split the diff'rence, combined the two and stayed up for seventeen nights: now, battered and bruised, missing a tooth or two, on sex and death I muse
4 even a house of cards can cause tremors as it falls faretheewell, belle reve 5 a swirl in a stream: a fixed shape in constant flux as am i, and you such restless grasping at rocks in this infinite sea of sky we in-habit, assumptions possessions stealing precious space in our being now to form a live mandala by placing gems on my river's bed 6 I ask: is a moth's life any less brilliant for it's brevity?
Swi rli ng stones-j arrod rasalas
Si sters-J essi caPons
A Poem Without By Rickey Lee
A sense of confinement in rhyming will take the color from the dearest even the profoundest to become a loveless— I sit and water a hidden undercurrent without picking up a I amend— of Ars Poetica June
anno domini.
Of the hemming of the sweetest Too quick, it's sung too— the shortest A song about— and a cloud-swept sky for the highest wisping bravely across a dragonfly across circle round my— feeling this those that I've lived this before.
uni ty-j .pons& m. w.grant
Walled Vi llage-Dani elRobles
Flora2-Dan W i lli amsBaumgart
The Well By Rickey Lee “If you look long enough into the void, the void begins to look back through you.” – Nietzsche
At the center of our town cemetery stands a little stone well, known for being cursed. By high school not a single person would admit his or her secret fear of the unusual well, and would instead scoff at the tales that surrounded it. Only children were expected to believe that it was a sort of hellish gateway, where on certain nights, under such and such conditions, unknown things crawled up from its depths... spirits, zombies, demons... Instead we teenagers would prove our bravery by sneaking into the cemetery after hours carrying twelve packs of beer and glass-blown pipes. And during those rapturous nights I learned to forget everything I had heard about the well as a child. I forgot all the tales of mystery and missing children and the readily given prognosis that the waters of the well were saturated with the souls of the dead. Undoubtedly, age brings with it skepticism. Over successive weekend nights, I learned that the well was just as ordinary and harmless as any other
structure. It might have had a history, it might have had a few tales that surrounded it, but in principle it was as inanimate as a wicker chair. And to prove our superiority of mind, we’d throw empty cans into it and deface it with markers, containing a secret pride in knowing that we alone could disenchant what many believed to be an incurable ill. This went on into the summer until people reported the disturbances and the law stopped us. It seemed unfair and unjust to me. But, I suppose, in the end it didn’t much matter anyway. Shortly thereafter, most of my friends moved away to fouryear colleges, while I stayed at home as consequence of my family’s poverty. Realities such as these were beginning to form a stark and rigorous picture of life. Soon, I found myself working full time to pay for an apartment and a car. There was a girlfriend, an abortion, and a car crash. I worked some more so that I could afford payments on my new car. Then the war came. Nick Sparks was killed over seas and the economy began to fail. I was forced to give up my job and move back in with my parents. Though the world, as I could now reasonably see, was an unrelenting, violent, and disappointing place, the well had nothing do to with it. It existed independently as an occasional day-dream or memory of better days. So it was not altogether surprising that one overcast day, during my long and loathsome unemployment, I decided to revisit it.
Upon first shoving through the screeching iron gates of the cemetery, I could smell the perfume of dying flowers left upon the graves, hanging in the damp air like the scent of childhood holidays. I passed through the rows of the “God-bless-his-souls” and “Here-lies-my-beloveds”, and came upon the familiar sickly-green structure. As I approached it, I thought briefly of my teenage years. Someone had washed off our scribbles. But a poorly-drawn heart remained. And mine was beating fast as I remembered the kiss I received before sketching it. I touched it briefly, tracing it with my fingertip, and noticing how cold the stone felt. Taking a seat on the edge of its circular rim, I let my feet dangle into the darkness. At first overwhelmed, my eyes refused to penetrate the void before me. Instead, being well-adjusted to the gray afternoon hue, they wandered around my surroundings. I gazed at an adjacent church’s red roof, where a raven paced back and forth, knocking debris out of a rain-gutter. I shifted uncomfortably on my stony seat and recalled the warmth of my car’s interior. But just as I resolved to leave, the raven stopped and stared at me, releasing a foreboding cry. Then it raised its wings and with a few effortless flaps, glided out of sight. Viewing the well, my vision began to readjust as I focused on its yin-like darkness. Like a painting realized with each singular brush stroke, slowly the blank anatomy of the well began to reveal itself. Its masonry was archaic. The stones were carved
unevenly and yet cleverly fit together like a puzzle. I heard a light wind pass through the trees. There was the singing of birds friendlier than the raven. Also, footsteps and weeping could be heard. Without looking up to confirm, I heard the voices of two women, one of which coarsely lamented the loss of a lover, while the other, feather–soft, returned condolences. Immediately I felt drawn to this warm voice and listened keenly as she soothed that all truelove reunites in the afterlife. When the two ladies were out of an ear’s range, the dark mysteries of the well lured me back. It longed for all of my senses. My fingertips went numb and the slight hunger I had brought with me left my stomach. All concept of smell drowned in a blandness that can only be expressed as a tasteless nothing; the smell of emptiness, if there is such a thing. There couldn’t be a better moment then now, I thought, to throw myself in, to invite death, and to plummet. I sat still. I breathed slowly and automatically. Blackness was more than black; it was nothing. Then at the lowest and darkest ebb, I spotted a flicker; the kindle of awareness miraculously sparked from deep down inside. I needed no sensory organs perceive it. Right on the cusp of recollection and consciousness, I saw what it was. I saw the spirit which had haunted the well so long ago. In the waters, I witnessed my own reflection.
boxcoffi n -j eremyatki ns
www. li festri ps. de
bymarc Seestaedt
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Hi ghli ner-J essi capons
Temporary and Raw with the Smooth Agility of Nature By Valerie Chavez The way it hallowed out your brain and belly with such a muscled, twisting elegance—how could one not applaud the requisite grace that moves a body to collapse upon itself ? How your face became its stage— pirouetting beneath your eyelids, feasting on the rose of your apples, calmly descending to hammock in your cheeks. How your dreams became its breath— sucking deep the stillness of your sleep, with exhale solid and permeating—it loved you enough to be the only punctual character in your night terror.
Of what ubiquitous nature that should have been saved for the gods! Parading on silent tip-toe to mangle your lobes—Phineas' single spear—pressing delicate fingerprints in every corner, so no space was devoid of something. And it's that clever something— having found its way to water your lungs, confiding in you the notion of satin-lined walls. That big misery—what loyal damage, marrying parts of you that yet to exist— as partnership does, temporary and raw, stirring, with the smooth agility of nature.
My California Poppy By Rickey Lee
As quiet as the mist amongst the Coastal Range do I, with writing, explore a forgotten river valley. “Make the seed your heart says Komachi, “the blossoms your words.” So I sow each beat each beauty into the soil. Awaiting a blossom, I switch between I-Ching and I, Claudius so that even the white walls know my dreams.
A Fall into Night by Michael Warren Grant At First Act's close, players and day traders slip off stage to rejoin our audience, as their Master melts into the mountainous backdrop, and his fleet footed crew alter the scene unseen. Rosy hues overtaken by sullen blues; purple and cyan bleeding into black; a soft hand over felt, the sky is smoothed over. At the rise of the second act the Maestra in all her lunacy dances luminously into view. The Heralds of Eve, chorus of her theme; frogs and crickets in orchestral harmony sing to the beat of a moth's wings.
J oshuatreeSunset-raypai
Backto theEarth -J usti neFi li pello
As her consoling smile washes over us and her long, pale fingers sit softly upon our skin, memories come upon us, and gentle murmurs whisper up from the unconscious‌ Like a stream of sparks in the sky, each remembrance, a bloom of light opening then falling apart to rain down upon our heads like crackling leaves aflame. On the edge of our seats, we awaken again to the First Act's reprise – Our ovation is unending.
SynergyZine IV: Wabi Sabi Alpha Print
SynergyZine (Publishing); 2009 Printed in San Francisco, California by Copyedge Cover by Jeremy Atkins Type Font: Centaur, Trajan Pro and Book Antiqua For submissions or issue requests contact: editor@synergyzine.com Visit our publication online at: www.issuu.com/synergyzine Website (currently under construction): Synergyzine.com
A special thank you to all our contributors! To follow their work, please visit their individual sites: Rickey Lee : ploughandfeather.blogspot.com Jessica Pons : jessicapons.blogspot.com Daniel W.B. : flickr.com/photos/danielwb M.W. Grant : feralgrinn.blogspot.com Marc Seestaedt : lifestrips.de
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