Christian Meaas Svendsen

PETER. THANK YOU.

Now that you’re dead
Maybe the rest of us can finally get a gig!

Ha!

Your openings were always so strong.
… and you opened my mind approximately 5 years after I heard you the second time.

I was 16 years old and tried to figure out what the hell was going on. It took some time for it to sink, but when it hit bottom, it made a small crack and set me on a slow paced journey which I think will last forever.

I never got to know you, still you have been present. From since I can remember, you were always a «living legend», carrying an important legacy. Perhaps a heavy burden to bear, but from where I’m standing, you did really great. A pat on the shoulder from an aging nobody. You must be so flattered. I’m (not) sorry.

For everyone — including myself — who might feel a sense of regret for not getting the chance to play with you: What a stupid, egocentric thought!

More importantly: You are still here. Whenever your records are being played… Whenever your art is being marveled at… Whenever your stories are being shared… Not to mention all the people you’ve crossed paths with. Whenever I get a chance to play and — equally importantly — hang out with one of your long term comrades, I am also playing with you and all the other people that came before you. To my limited understanding, that’s the real beauty of this legacy. It stretches both into the past and the future, but must be executed and experienced in the now. 

Maybe I’m just a wishful thinker, a hopeless romantic.

OK, so you might have left some vacant spots. Who cares?!
You also left a void that cannot be filled. Should not be filled. Immer geradeaus!

Brötzmann. What a fitting name. With an undefined nostalgia, I will cherish the meetings we never had. I will do my very best to honor your memory by practicing my craft, practicing my life, practicing being true to my music. Everyday, for the rest of my life, to the best of my capacity.

Peter. Thank you. Thank you so much. Let’s leave it at that, before this tear gets a chance to leave my eye.

TIL JON C

Et øyeblikk defineres best av alt som omfavner det
«Nå» er bare en tilnærming
Beatet ditt og timen din var akkurat sånn:
Akkurat fleksibelt nok til å poengtere det som er flyktig,
en nøkkel som åpner opp øyeblikket,
som gir musikken en kropp å være i
og kroppen en musikk å være i

Du var aldri for langt bak
heller aldri for frampå
selv om det kjennes litt sånn ut, akkurat nå

Hvil i fred
mens vi lever videre på den uendelige klangen
av ditt siste symbalslag

OPP NED

Når man som nordmann
står på en bryggekant i Tasmania
og ser på en omvendt stjernehimmel
mens det er dag i hjemlandet
og innser at evolusjonen
skapte mennesket
som naturens øye
til å betrakte seg selv

Ikke til å slippe bomber
Ikke til å skape konflikter
Ikke til å ødelegge skoger
Ikke til å ofre til guder

Da finnes ingen nordmenn
ingen Tasmania
ingen stjernehimmel
og ingen hjemland
ingen bomber
ingen konflikter
ingen skoger
ingen guder

Da finnes bare bølger mot stranden
og lyden av lukten av sjøen

ZAZEN

Når vi sitter
står vi
lik trær i en urskog
flyr vi
lik fugler i V-form
er vi
lik universet i hele sin utfoldelse

og vi blir mennesker igjen

Når vi reiser oss opp
legges skogen øde
fuglene faller fra himmelen
og universet kollapser
i vente på en ny begynnelse

og vi blir mennesker igjen

Music

Music

A metaphor. A shortcut. A medium to shorten the distance between ourselves and reality. A link to the volatile, changing and ungraspable within ourselves. A concept. An inherent desire to concretise the abstract. An echo of a fervent wish that things should be sustained. A reflection of the fact that everything has its allotted time. From the train window, the landscape is always changing, we are just along for the journey.

Music

It is nothing to listen to. It is something to be in. Something to be with. Through. Being one with the ephemeral which is rooted in its nature. Nothing to grasp, hold in your hand or put in your pocket. Nothing to own. 

Music

The art of the moment. Beautiful? Ugly? It's just our idea of what is beautiful which makes something beautiful. To live is the art of being present in the moment. The art of letting go of our ideas and concepts about reality. The art of letting go of oneself, only to find oneself again. Finding oneself in the midst of the infinite possibilities of the moment. In the deafening silence. In the heart of the hurricane. In the all-consuming emptiness which contains all that we potentially were, are and can become.

Music

Sound. Silence. Sound and silence. It's here, and then disappears. Where did it go, and from where did it come? Wherever it goes, and wherever it came from, it can not be owned. It can not be seen, it can not be smelled, tasted or touched. It can not be heard. It can not be thought. It is in its essence completely empty. And for that reason it is so real. Only a distant feeling. Our wish to remain the same is ultimately what limits us. But beyond the limit of our wishes, ideas and concepts, there are endless possibilities. Beyond the limit of our concepts there is no music to speak of. No music that came or went. No music to hear. Nothing beautiful.

Still - we let the music disappear. The distant feeling disappears. What was beautiful becomes beautiful once again, but in a slightly different way. In a slightly different light. By being open to how it is presented to us, music taught us something. Not what was beautiful or ugly, nor what was right or wrong, but that the ungraspable can only be owned by letting it go.

Outside of the train the landscape remains the same, but our journey continues inevitably. A fresh moment succeeds the latter. Experience has already become recollection. The entire universe is balancing on a thin, thin line. Can you hear it? 

M.E.

Du kler deg selv i rødt
med sminke fra de andres død
Du tror vi trenger deres kjøtt?
Tro meg, vi lider ingen nød!

Hvordan kan vi finne fred
når volden er så nært for hånd?
Medlidenhet må være bred
ord blir tomme uten ånd

Ditt smil er hånlig, arrogant
med deres blod på egen tann
det eneste som her er sant
er mennesket – en fisk på land

Veggen jeg trykker på

Du er
veggen jeg trykker på

og ifølge Newtons tredje bevegelseslov
skal du trykke tilbake på meg med nøyaktig lik kraft

Årsak og virkning. Vi vet godt at du er en konsekvens av mine tidligere handlinger
Jeg kastet meg hen til livet, og livet kastet deg tilbake på meg

Men mens jeg står her og trykker
og kreftene mine renner ut av meg
og hjertet mitt renner inn i deg
forblir du bare en vegg

Hvorfor mister du ingen krefter, men kan stå der like standhaftig?
og hvorfor fylles ikke hjertet mitt opp til randen, og renner over sine bredder?

Er veggen kun en luftspeiling?
Er du kun en illusjon?

Eller tok Isaac feil? Har jeg funnet et lite smutthull i hans universielle teorier og burde melde meg som kandidat til å motta neste års Nobelpris i fysikk?

Veggen jeg trykker på
det er deg

Men du trykker ikke tilbake
og jeg går tom
tom for krefter
tom for hjerte

Idet jeg slipper taket, og synker sammen til mitt mest sårbare, så kjenner jeg det endelig. Et lite dytt i siden. Innsiden

Jeg kjenner din kraft, ugripelig
og smaken av din hjertesaft, hinsides sanseportene

Inne i meg beveger du deg med lysets hastighet, og utenfor meg står du der bom stille.
Du er lysrask og stasjonær, og du er to steder på en gang. Ute av forstand

Sjelen min gjør et kvantesprang, og jeg skimter deg så vidt ved neste partial
Det er klart det hele ikke kan forklares ved hjelp av klassisk fysikk!

Du er
veggen jeg trykker på

Og dens harde flate
trykker tilbake
med to myke lepper
av stein og knallrød leppestift

Tiden stopper opp, og evigheten røper seg i et lite øyeblikk
Og jeg får selv erfare, at alt er relativt

Mestertyven

Tross min fremragende innsats i å lukke alle vinduer
og låse alle dører
med blytunge hengelåser av stål og resolutt besluttsomhet

Og tross min egen flukt fra meg selv
og min vilje til å glemme
blir jeg innhentet

I løpet av et par dager
finner du meg
bryter deg inn
og sniker deg inn i drømmene mine

Med hele din bredde, og med din fulle lengde
og med det forbannede, skjeve smilet
boltrer du deg i mine innerste kamre
som om disse vekkstuede avkroker fremdeles var hjemmet ditt

Du roter rundt i støvete skuffer
du danser omkring i sommerkjoler
og velter ned gamle minner

For en oppvask det blir

Du smeller døren hardt etter deg
og forlater meg som du kom — tomhendt

Det eneste som måtte finnes av verdi
har du allerede tatt fra meg
og det får du aldri tilbake

Practice

Practice sitting, standing and walking. Practice writing, reading and listening. Practice smiling, laughing and singing. Practice crying. Practice awareness, attention and patience. Practice caring, sharing and giving. Practice non-attachment. Practice wisdom and compassion - beyond race, age, sex and species. Practice action. Practice sight, hearing, taste, touch and smell. Practice thinking and feeling. Practice breathing. Practice body, heart and mind. Practice balance. Practice gravity. Practice forms and poses. Practice love and practice Love. Practice gratitude and generosity. Practice forgiveness and humility. Practice living and practice dying. Practice resurrecting. Practice fullness. Practice nothingness. Practice being and practice non-being. Practice content and practice emptiness. Practice peace and practice being peace. Practice silence. Practice hard and practice harder. Practice practice. Practice sincerely and thoroughly. Practice every day, in every moment, always. Practice, practice, practice — and all is coming.

Gjemsel

Bare for å klargjøre:
Du er deg, og jeg er meg

Men tar du de samme ordene i din munn
Vendes det hele brått på hodet og vi maskerer oss selv

Men slik er det selvfølgelig ikke, og det er nettopp det jeg prøver å forklare
med de samme gjerningsmennene som kidnappet oss i utgangspunktet

Jeg mener det bare er verdt å huske på, at vi ikke må miste oss selv i språket

Et sted mellom to punktum, står jeg der som et utropstegn inneklemt blant to parenteser, forkledd som et spørsmål.
Slik: .(!).?

Jo flere ord jeg forsøker å beskrive det med, desto lengre forsvinner jeg inn i jungelen av lyder og syntaks.

Det gjelder å gi seg mens leken er god. Punktum.

6th Gear

0.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, ready to make a choice
In my stomach there’s a monster, in my head a screaming voice
There’s none around to help me, none around to please
I straighten up, buckle up - I firmly turn the keys
The roaring sound which follows, detracts the monster in my belly
I am reaching for the pedals, but find my legs have turned to jelly
My mouth, body and spirit’s dry, and to satisfy their thirst
I have to make a move, go from neutral to first

1.
As I wrap my hands around the wheel, my insides start to boil
I’m heading out for the horizon, without a goal
My eyes are in the mirror, and not on the road
I don’t know what I’m doing, my brain’s on overload
What lies ahead feels infinite, and I feel so very small
But I reassure myself that I’m the one who’s in control
I have a feeling I am ready, the road ahead is clear
To get to where I’m going I’ll have to switch to second gear

2.
I know I once told you that I’d let you go never
But I hope you understand that even I can’t wait forever
Still - if you’d show up behind me, I would keep my words true
I’d stop to pick you up, so that we could start anew
So though I’m moving forward, already leaving dirt behind
I have a feeling I should stop and pause, turn around and press rewind
Therefore I’m still driving slowly, but there’s still no sign of you
Existence’s pushing on, three’s succeeding two

3.
The engine’s getting warm, still tempo’s fairly calm
My heart is beating heavy, sweat’s running from my palms
One eye on the road now, only one left in the mirror
And as I’m gaining speed, this ride becomes a thriller
What lies ahead of me, seems more and more tempting
And what lies behind, seems more and more resenting
Still I can’t let go, you’re in me like the devil
But salvation ain’t his realm, so I’ll kick in the next level

4.
Speaking of the devil - that escalated quickly!
Blood rushes though my veins now, my skin feels kind of prickly
This shit is getting serious, I’m not sure that I could stop
And even if you wanted, you’d have a hard time catching up
The thought of slowing down strikes me, but slips away quite fast
The now leans to the future, not towards the past
And then I suddenly realize, as the signal lamp turns red
That this ride is much more able, than you ever were in bed!

5.
The number “5” lights up the dashboard, I hear freedom in my ears
I forget all my pains and sorrows, my angers and my fears
The wind blows through my hair, my head feels pure and sober
If you’d show up now to stop me, I’d be sure to run you over!
There’s not much more to say, except maybe “sorry Mac!”
You had your chance, you blew it, there’s no way I’m turning back!
I leave this dirty road, I’m heading for the highway
And as I leave my doubts behind me, I am greeted by a new day
The sun is in my face to dry away my last tear
I put my new cool shades on, and take it to the sixth and final gear!

The following is a comment on a section taken from a longer text named "The Way of the Bodhisattva". It is a rather famous buddhist text, and allegedly given as a speech by a figure called Shantideva. I was confronted with it during a zen-retreat I attended in 2015, and the following arose as I got plenty of time to meditate on the verse presented in the very beginning of my commentary. The second last verse refers to another section in the text. "The Way of the Bodhisattva" is a beautiful and inspiring text, and the underlying criticism in my comment lies not so much with Shantideva himself, but rather the modern interpretation/translation of it.

Shantideva's Leatherware

«To cover the earth with sheets of leather
Where could such amounts of skin be found
But the leather soles of just your shoes
It is as if I cover the whole earth»

Speaks Shantideva
Words of true stupidity
It is shit wrapped in golden parchment
I will comment him accordingly

To cover the soles of our feet
with a fellow being’s skin
Is it really any wonder
that the world is full of sin?

Better then, chop off our feet
or skin ourselves than to repent
the use of flesh of beings
which never gave consent

By context I can easily see
that your intent has no offense
But all your verses lose their weight
from such a single verse of ignorance

We must beware of language
in this case you chose unwise
It feeds our base illusion
which will lead to our demise

Is care for fellow man
how compassion’s understood?
Compassion must be wider
to unlock perfect livelihood

To practice zen of own free will
and cry for crossing legs in pain
while others cry unwillingly
turns all your effort in to vain

Is it really hard to grasp
that animals, from whale to bee
should live their lives as they see fit
and not for us in misery?

To care is not to care
why meddle in affairs?
There is no need to interfere
Their life, lest skin, is solely theirs

How can we ever save ourselves
and after that a human face
if we fail to see the basic needs
of those other than the human race?

We take not from necessity
thus our ego makes our species king
But the owner of what is taken
does not think of it a trivial thing

Murder can’t be justified
You can not pick which one to shoot
Limitless compassion
is not the goal, it is the root

We rape and steal and murder
it simply isn’t fair
And we take cover in our language
and Shantideva’s leatherwear

To speak of saving sentient life
and then abuse it willingly
You are but smug and arrogant
your compassion is hypocrisy

And then to speak of everything
as hands of limbs of one and same
is to mutilate that holy body
and put your words to shame

This concludes my comment
on what Shantideva fails to see
and if you feel, by chance I err
feel free to comment me