Concentrating resources to form a system may be another form of the Tower of Babel. Behind the gathering of strength and resources lie many problems. Use and distribution become the source of the problems, and rationality in science becomes an important tool.
21/10/2007 N27P24A
Between city and prairie, the distance between them holds different desires, oppositions, and struggles. Night narrows that distance, and on the prairie one sees the lights of Babel!
In the crowd, I always make myself as small as possible, as if transparent, drifting lightly with the wind. Can you hear the music? Can you see the shadows dancing? Let these flow onto the blank page and assemble naturally, a dance that forgets success and failure. Form and system draw the line of success and failure, and struggle on the Tower of Babel.
Backlight—this name is linked to the prairie at night, a land that brews creation. Standing on the prairie, I once again watch the light of the city.
Only when all one’s strength has been exhausted
does it become life.
Unless I reach the farthest point,
I cannot see the horizon.
Climbing into the heights, I leave reality behind.
The immense space makes the body appear tiny.
Farther and higher, until I can no longer breathe.
A point on the tower is about to disappear!
Dreams coming true happen only in fairy tales. In hard-fought battles, warriors who wield dreams as a weapon struggle against reality, and at last bring dreams into the real world. After baptism, dreams appear only in incomplete form, just as reality is incompletely revealed in works of art. Sometimes, in fierce combat, what is lost may be the ability to create dreams, the innocent heart lost, exiled into reality—this is the most tragic result of struggle. N15P89A
In this labyrinthine world,
do you and I not move forward by faith?
Without religious belief,
we can only hold on to conviction.
“The past” is both a foundation and a burden.
To shatter the past is not to deny its foundation,
but to lay down its burden
so that we can face the future with greater strength.
It is a search for an exception,
a completely new direction.
To transcend the labyrinth of the self!
I exhaust myself until I become something consumable.
I waste my life on meaningless things,
and time simply slips away.
There are still many skies above us.
Although the moments of clear weather are too brief,
they are enough to satisfy me.
And the traveller continues to search for the vastness of the grassland,
to give expression to what lies within.
It is nothing extraordinary.
I have merely entered a labyrinth.
30/8/2003
At the “unknown moment,”
an exceptional choice is made.
The irrationality, confusion, and pain that came before
become material,
nurturing this choice.
Let resentment burn,
and make a decisive choice.
Rejoice in the exception!
Under intense love, after that choice, the balance scale lost its function;
in this moment, there is only concentration.
Because of the strong wind, the kite flew into the prairie and fell in love with this space. The string broke,
and he became trapped in this sky.
Fighting is not the way I search. Rather, I evade, search within myself, and live in imagination.
That sense of transcendence is merely a state of withdrawing into a space of self-enclosure.
6/2000
Amid the disorder, remain calm.
I see a line moving simply forward:
a predetermined path, an unchanging direction.
Like an escalator, it cannot turn back.
Have I decided?
I hold tightly to what I have, fixing my gaze,
afraid that in a blink it will vanish.
10/12/2002
This stillness is a process of sedimentation:
the heavy descends, the joyful rises,
waiting for a moment of greater clarity.
The breath exhaled wholeheartedly
is like a stone cast into a lake or sea.
It stirs reason and mingles with feeling,
moving from solid structure toward chaos.
Events and emotions recombine as they flow.
Inspiration, enter once again.
I have prepared a quiet sky
for lightning to pass through.
23/9/2003
Is the picture advanced and verified step by step in the manner of record, or poetically interpreted and moved forward? Both keep appearing. We record as truthfully as possible, using personal experience as material. But some areas cannot be easily entered; interpretation and association must fill in what is missing. Wisdom cannot be all-knowing; it is destined. The puzzle must be completed cooperatively: first by knowledge and experience, and the rest by mystery and poetry.
My feelings for the Mongolian grassland arise from a memory and an experience.
In that memory, I lost something important on the grassland
and laid down a heavy burden.
In exchange, I gained a space—
a space within my heart.
29/2/2001
Begin searching for my place in life.
Questioning, recording, and waiting have become the stages of my creative process.
The grassland, sunflowers, and starry sky give me strength—the vitality of life—and quiet me amid the hurried rhythm of the city.
The grassland represents infinite space; the sunflower, the vitality of life; and the starry sky, a profound sense of the sublime.
When I left the city and entered Mongolia, I discovered how beautiful the grassland was. It became the perfect place in my mind, a source of life force.
I project this inner longing onto the city, searching for the grassland within it: searching for vastness and freedom in small spaces; the vitality of nature within mechanical routines; and a sense of the sublime amid the fluctuations of life.
The color of green on the plain is enriched with superb dynamical change. Artist categories 17 the colors of green of the plain for our appreciation. But I just love to see this great patch of green which is only a single kind of color in my heart, the Mongolian unique color of green. The Mongolian plain can say to be a peaceful old man. He listens to us quietly. We behave a bit lovely in front of him. We feel ourselves being younger and younger. We can learn over there. If we make a closer observation, we can appreciate his charm. “the energy of life”
Leave the most beautiful place to search for beautiful scenery.
Leave the grassland to search for vastness.
Leave the woman I love, longing to see her beautiful face again.
Everything awaits “awakening” and “return.”
Stop in the midst of the search,
recall in silence,
and return to the land of innocence.
13/2/2001
Start the journey from fear and agony!
How it starts? Why it starts? What to gain? What to give up?
Leave the old but go towards a new place, the future brings me hopes.
The one who I am now is just like a young child learning to walk and going to the destiny by try and error.
When I walk on the Mongolian plain, the boundless space quiets me down, the starry night enables me to appreciate the amazing sky in the dark.
23/8/1999
The grassland and the mountain appear in my mind!
I have laid down my burden on the grassland,
yet I have taken the difficult mountain path.
I stop at the foot of the mountain
and ask myself: must I really reach the summit?
{Silent Fusion}
In a clear moment, I step into the prairie; amid the estrangement of heaven and earth, I stand out within it, with the threefold clarity of heaven, earth, and human. The sky seems to collapse as rain pours down, and my feet sink deep into the mud. One can only open one’s hands toward the sky and silently accept the baptism of fate.
{Grace of Light}
After the storm, the earth lies in ruins. Faint, half-hidden sunlight falls on the ground, revealing footprints while the body remains hidden in mist; this is a form of protection.
Blue descends to the earth, the mist recedes, and the prairie appears once again before my eyes. Light falls upon the body, and shadow once again is cast upon the earth, cast into lakes and seas. The surface of the lake reflects the fusion of me and the sky. Only when I can fly across the heavens, piercing all things like the wind, can I be happy.
Bright and clear sky, how can I come near you? In the blue sky of existence, sacrifice, death, peace, and mystery are flying.
If only you can hold the line that connects you to the sky,
you will feel yourself flying,
reaching that joy…
As long as you can hold the line that connects to the sky, you will feel that you are flying, touching that joy...
For now, do not give me wings; give me a place in the shade of a tree, so I can rest.
12/9/2003
We strive to blossom and bear fruit for ourselves.
With wings, seeds fly away from the great tree.
When faced with nature’s changes,
the flight we have labored over seems powerless.
We merge with the wind and throw ourselves into a curve of fate,
falling into the soil that has been given.
Traveling through this garden of reason,
I know beauty is not here,
but appears in the mist of bewilderment.
Eyes, why can you not gaze fully, and always secretly glance toward this mysterious garden?
30/3/2008 N27P53A
It departs, breaks apart; the apple falls to the earth, withers, and merges into the soil. It reveals a turning seed, which takes root and grows on the earth.
An accidental glance meets a vast spread of color.
I followed the road of direction to come here; you have grown until now, encouraged by sunlight and rain.
Fortunately, you are not a severed corpse placed in a vase; you are vividly displaying color upon the prairie.
When flowers bloom, the purpose is not to display their many colors, but to speak for the eternity of an instant.
Let go! Let the seed in your hand fly with the wind. You are not sunlight or soil—can you give it the nourishment to grow?
Color like a mass of blossoms reveals itself.
I misread this abundance and withdrew from it.
The world misread it too and threw itself in.
With the perspectives of nearsightedness and farsightedness, we place reality too near and too far, failing to keep a sacred distance.
At times, poor me, I keep reality hidden in the heart and let falsehood occupy the body.
15/5/2004 N15P65B
A gentle breeze passes over the land, and flowers bloom from it; this is my encounter with the wind.
The wind brings lost fragments, storing them piece by piece in memory.
It blows into the heart and reassembles the scattered pieces, preparing a small mirror for the soul.
With every stirring of the wind, whether gale and storm or a soft breeze, this mirror is shaken, flickering with the radiance of here and now.
Dance steps,
entering and withdrawing in an instant,
rubbing against the earth with the smallest possible contact,
only a little more,
and they could fly away from the ground.
Angel-like steps,
entering and withdrawing in an instant,
outstretched hands touching a dreamlike sacredness,
rubbing against the earth with the smallest possible contact,
only a little more,
and they could fly away from the ground.
Have you forgotten?
Flowing down from the mountain, searching for a land that does not exist.
Enduring the smell of earth as it stains the body,
forgetting the face I once had.
Can that place still be found?
18/9/2002
Encounter
Flowing beneath wind and rain, here and now, you and I meet.
Dead leaves fly away from their origin, drifting to this moment of the world.
Raindrops fall, willingly or unwillingly, flowing to this place upon the earth.
The flow of this instant shines.
The current of fate carries us toward an unknown future.
20/8/2005
Where does beauty show through in you? Is it by placing you in a vase, decorating you, carefully setting you in a position of symmetry and balance, and wrapping the body in pleasing, harmonious color? Could one pierce this beautiful wrapping paper into your body? Perhaps you would suffer to the extreme, or weep for joy, as it enters flesh and is carved into the soul.
What is hidden within the heart—
the radiance of a diamond, or the smell of earth?
Should it be revealed, or concealed?
As a child, I possessed a sparkling innocence with joy.
Soil gradually accumulated and hid its brilliance;
the earth grew richer, and a great tree grew upon it.
Beneath its shade, I enjoyed the movement of the breeze,
the sunlight appearing and disappearing,
and the sweetness of the fruit.
The tree and I stood firmly upon the earth.
Beneath my feet was soil,
and within it was also the radiance of a diamond.
I cannot reveal that light recklessly,
for the diamond and the roots of the tree have become inseparably entwined.
To turn over the soil would mean bringing life to an end.
In this situation, I do not feel troubled by the choice.
The sunlight that shimmers beneath the tree’s shade
is itself the radiance of the diamond;
all light comes from one source.
Even indirect knowledge of it
is preferable to a cruel act of revelation.
The diamond reflects light,
like primordial simplicity.
The soil and the tree receive and carry that light:
the unity that emerges after multiplicity.
Art is always what shines against a background of nothingness; it is the moment truth appears. On the canvas, it always asks us to give everything so that meaning can arise. The points of light in the night are stories of hope and despair. Light is small, yet always a dazzling presence; struggling to shine from weakness, this passionate process gives you a body in concrete form, casting all you have in your hands into the void. Such an encounter shines fiercely on the dark stage.
After the wondrous moment,
because of darkness, fear, ideas, and thought,
I became lost.
As memories are revisited and values reassessed,
the will faces a kind of dissolution.
I fall from the sky, let go of the wings of faith,
and sit staring into space.
I cast off everything heavy;
my body becomes light and drifts in the wind.
I close my eyes and remember the days of dancing with the wind,
walking high above the earth.
6/12/2002
She keeps flowing away, and I keep throwing myself into pursuit.
I carry this moment in the finest vessel; sunlight and grass become lavish ornaments, adorning this instant.
Carried by the wind, she arrives—this is the radiance where calm and eternity meet.
With so much sunlight before me, should I still fear the shadow beneath the trees?
Light always draws me in, and so does joy.
The river flows, and I see a flash of brilliance in an instant, flickering like sparks.
It reminds me that everything is about to happen, and everything is swiftly passing away.
Music begins, a deep and grave melody,
foretelling a rhythm of joy.
If the union of music and image is but a material coincidence,
then the performer is emptiness itself,
and we have never truly heard the piece,
because we have never believed in the miracle of music.
The innocence of children is precious,
and is now hard to find in us.
With longing eyes,
we gaze upon a child’s happiness.
Beautiful moments are the moments of encounter.
When inspiration meets the world, art is born.
To take the first step in dance without music is a slight imperfection.
To hear music rise within, yet be unable to dance, is also painful.
Revelation from above has always been calm and unhurried,
appearing to me with ease and natural grace.
How at a loss I am,
hurriedly carrying this wondrous music.
15/5/2004 N15P65C
From the white of birth to the black of death, from stillness to stillness. The light of wisdom shines onto the stage of thought, arranging a rehearsal; music begins, the joy of new life steps out in a light dance, and the emptiness of death answers with heaviness. N15P80A
The problem with thought lies in “a kind of self-righteous division and construction”; the kingdom of thought thus created instead becomes a high wall that prevents us from seeing truth. We have never truly heard beautiful music, because we have not grasped the miracle of music. This is a phenomenon; we truly dare not believe that miracles exist in the world, and imagination cannot fly far away.
26/8/2007 N27P27A
Light within sparks, a sudden flash,
an impression of joy.
The sound of burning abruptly interrupts the music,
like suffering arriving all at once.
Blue descends to the earth,
the mist recedes,
and the prairie once again appears before my eyes.
Light falls upon the body,
and shadow once again is cast upon the ground,
cast into lakes and seas.
The surface of the lake reflects the fusion of me and the sky.
Only when I can fly across the heavens,
piercing all things like the wind,
can I be happy.
Descending from a high place,
like a spring flowing down the mountain.
Its destination is, unexpectedly, somewhere higher.
It moves downward and cannot turn back;
it changes from purity into turbidity,
flowing into lakes and seas, and then into channels.
The turbid drop of water can no longer recognize itself.
This is the lowest point of its journey.
I admire the flowers in full bloom.
I enjoy the sound of wind moving through the woods.
I drift across the surface of the lake,
then sink to its bottom.
And so I leave the light.
Flowing water, you are always flickering and unstable; before praise can even be spoken, you have already gone. This force transforms into graceful rivers, into proud rushing water; you are always simple, always flowing only forward. Your myriad changes come because you have fallen upon the earth. You are shaped and distorted, yet it is this force that lets you flow on the earth. What truly makes you happy is the journey, where under a powerful force you become river, and then gather into ocean.
What flows is the ocean—
the ocean of consciousness.
A simple thought is wonderful; a semi-automatic flow, the interaction of thought and mystery, floating in water, no longer struggling, merging into the sea.
Real time lies hidden in the ocean of consciousness.
At the moment we touch it,
we bring images and feelings up from the deep,
and beauty flows from them.
By contrast, to study and analyse phenomena rigorously
is a revelation without feeling.
Visual expansion allows form and colour to vary continuously.
Within time and space, consciousness and the unconscious connect in a wondrous moment,
revealing the shadow behind that moment.
Letters emerge without deliberate intent,
accidentally forming meaning.
The story gradually takes shape from fragments.
Waves move the fine sand,
leaving layer upon layer of traces
that reveal the lines of the ocean’s movement.
The wanderer sits down once again and asks:
Which direction leads to the destination?
Unable to see, I feel empty.
Is the great mountain blocking my view,
or is the glaring sunlight forcing my eyes shut?
Before me there is only selfishness, agony, weariness and emptiness.
And these are all that I possess.
I bring a tree down from the mountain to the market,
where we compare and exchange with one another.
I return to the mountain full of joy
and plant new trees.
This is my richly varied home;
the movement of the market makes it richer.
I bring a tree down from the mountain to the market,
where we compare and exchange with one another.
When I hear of higher mountains and more beautiful trees,
I decisively become a seeker, a wanderer,
searching for a higher place.
Conviction flows and takes shape
through the market’s variety.
Stripped of its faded outer garment,
how can happiness be reclaimed?
Bare, I look straight ahead,
while light and shadow shift within my eyes.
The wind blows and the shadows move,
witnessing the passage of time.
I lower my head in thought—
I cannot see the real, only light and shadow.
That shadow is a tree, dancing with the wind.
Why not look up and see what is real?
He is a traveller.
This is not the destination,
yet he sits in the tree’s shade.
The sun makes him sweat;
he needs the shadow, a brief escape.
Will does not vanish in weariness—
will is a flower within weariness,
and is all the more beautiful for it.
The sacred mountain exerts its pull,
because at its summit dense clouds gather,
letting out a light that appears and disappears.
The eye of wisdom gazes, desire stirs,
and knowledge is a glittering belt encircling the mountain,
suggesting the splendor hidden behind the clouds.
Upon the mountain, one should look towards the farthest place one can see.
If what I see is not that eternal distance,
then what I paint is not eternity,
but only a display of my own limitations.
Leaving the mountain, one should go as far as one can see.
If I do not place my life upon the canvas,
then I am merely observing art from a distance.
Must I carry such a heavy burden in order to challenge the mountain?
Why not lay it down on the vast grassland
and rest in silence?
In the dense clouds, as one draws near to being itself, fear and sublimity fill the body.
On the mountaintop, light from being shines forth, that boundless deep blue.
I have come close, yet can never arrive.
What wisdom gives is not only the hope of escaping worldly suffering,
not only the delight of creative transcendence,
nor the emptiness of what is sought but never found.
What wisdom seeks is to be illuminated by light.
We can only acknowledge our limits,
discover the darkness hidden within,
and at the same time ask for light to enter.
Silently, I walk toward the horizon.
Unable to see the sky above the grassland, I become disoriented.
Until I find the ecstasy of the mountain,
I run as though igniting life.
12/8/2002
Pain is often discovered in the night.
I am not facing it alone;
darkness closes tightly around me, and so does light.
Starlight and the countless lights of homes
merge into the darkness, quietly watching.
What is seen is the most beautiful.
In memory, my pain is often discovered in the night.
I often thought I was facing this darkness alone,
but light, at that moment, encloses me tightly,
with starlight above and countless lights of homes below.
I merge into the darkness and watch in silence.
For me, this is the most beautiful thing I have seen.
### 170
存在著的戰爭。
智慧的出現，做成我們第一個阻隔。
戰爭表張不同意志的對立，原於區分和融合的流程，欲望做其背後的推動力，智慧成其手段。
The war that exists.
The appearance of wisdom becomes our first barrier.
War displays the opposition of different wills, arising from the process of division and fusion; desire serves as the force behind it, and wisdom becomes its means.
2026 01 29
Within the radiance of achievement,
life is brief and cruel.
A flying bird falls into the sea,
lost in the knowledge that it cannot reach the shore.
Along the way, it forgets the pleasure of flight.
Wherever we are headed,
there is first a longing for the destination;
then the courage to leave the ground;
and afterward, attachment.
Let me remain in the sky in any way I can.
19/4/2004 · N15P11B
The light submerged in the sea
must be sought by diving into the depths.
It needs breath; it needs sunlight.
The body makes the choice.
Between rising and sinking, between light and darkness,
the will loses its power.
Life seems to drag along the road with weight, but when I look up, the infinite starlight has already lifted me off the ground.
The use of creative materials allows for immense freedom.
Our choices mean that we have already entered into an extraordinary relationship with the material.
We accept wholly the beauty and limits that material reveals; this is no longer functional use, but emotional attachment.
Through exploring material, we step into the relations of the world, while the material asks us to pour in life.
This is mutual offering, mutual loss, and reciprocal possession.
Our age is an age of lightness—do not be so heavy, nor so detached.
What sacred realm, what lofty words and grand ambitions, seem to have become out-of-step signs, spokespeople for impractical imagination and theory.
This weightless lightness drifts us toward emptiness; our thought no longer gazes into mysterious darkness, but focuses on looking back at visible, tangible things, using calculation and analysis as its means.