He stepped into the climax of the night with flurry and excitement.
Finally, my mind was settled. Painting, smoking a pipe, drinking tea, reading a book, playing on the computer and imagining idly and endlessly or thinking of nothing at all. Quietness is a blessing. Several bamboos grow in the balcony and windowsill. When the night wind blew, the bamboo leaves rattled and the swaying shadow seemed to be the portrayal of my floating and leisurely heart.
When we are angry, at the second of anger, there is no identification with it at all. A few seconds later the whole business of identification, I should, I should not control, and all that arises. But in watching without any movement of thought, actually, watching, then in that watching let anger - anger flowers, blooms, expands, and withers away. That is what I want to get at. So that instead of suppressing it, which makes it stronger, by watching it, it expands, the chapter comes to an end, the book comes to an end.
After a busy day, I hide myself in the studio and start my freedom. Freedom might be a state of mind, a tenacious confrontation and escape from reality; freedom is also a way, a transformation of desire into a pretended calm. Thus, painting, painting the free big flowers becomes the way and state of mind for me to pursue and to sense freedom.
Written in Green River Study deep in the night of November 21, 2006
Is there not a difference between a flowering mind and the becoming mind? The becoming mind is a mind that is always growing, becoming, enlarging, gathering experience as knowledge. We know that process full well in our daily life, with all the results, with all its conflicts, its miseries and strife, but we do not know the life of flowering. And is there not a difference between the two which we have to discover – not trying to discriminate, to separate, but to discover – in the process of our daily living? When we discover this, we may perhaps be able to set aside this ambition, the way of choice and discover a flowering, which is the way of life, which may be true action.
Therefore, I am continuously painting my big flowers
So, what is life? What could life be? Life comes and goes freely. The circle of life repeats again and again just like the brilliant blooming and withering of flower. Precisely because of brilliance and withering, flower seems to have a life. The meaning of life lies in the freedom of Let go of the blooming and withering of flower and the earth nurtures the deep and free life.
He stamped the mound firm with his bare feet, fluttered his flittering wings, and flew to the nearest grass. He sat down on the tip of the grass gently, bumped off a drop of flexible dew.
"Do you fancy a dance?" Lady Rose gave him a big charming smile, and took him away arm in arm.
Being good, and becoming good, are two different things. The flowering of goodness is not becoming good. Becoming good is the denial of goodness. Becoming better is a denial of what is; the better corrupts the what is. Being good is now, in the present; becoming good is in the future, which is the invention of the mind that is caught in belief, in a formula of comparison and time. When there is measurement, the good ceases.
He shook his pretty head and skimmed over a flittering little pond. The reflection of his young body in the pond looked like a series of lively music notes, full of passion and power. Just then he heard laughter of young flowers. They must have perceived the scent of his love in the rosy sunset; parties pleasant as always.
If I am a liar I can try to stop lying, which is what people generally do. But can I allow that lie to flower and die? Can I refuse to say it is right or wrong, good or bad? Can I see what is behind the lie? I can only find out spontaneously why I lie if there is freedom to find out. In the same way, in order not to be a prisoner of little things, can I find out why I am a prisoner? I want the fact to flower. I want it to grow and to expand, so that it withers and dies without my touching it.
Then he knew he was finally released. The last string attached to his heart, which ruthlessly pierced his soul, suddenly lost its magic, just like a broken music note disappeared in the air, and now he was set free.
Fortunately, all the memories about those dark cold nights will be melted in the warm sunshine.
The night was very quiet. I, sitting alone in the studio, was thinking of the distant winds outside window which blew through the whispering trees. What were the trees talking about? I was curiously listening. Maybe, in one morning, many imaginations and fantasies of last night will become thick and solid in the whispers of the night.
The desire to become is the soil in which sorrow takes root.
After finishing painting, I smoked and sat down to write something freely, just like the flowers I painted tonight. I tried to forget the specific basic appearance of flowers and be free to spread ink and add details on canvas. Ink, color, water, stroke and point. What a happy thing to paint freely. Painting is rendered in such a way, writing also should be in the same way, and what about being a man?
The whole movement from watching, listening to the thunder of insight, is one movement; it is not coming to it step by step. It is like a swift arrow. And that insight alone can uncondition the brain, not the effort of thought, which is determination, seeing the necessity for something; none of that will bring about total freedom from conditioning. All this is time and the ending of time. Man is time-bound. So where there is an ending of thought and to time, there is total insight. Only then can there be the flowering of the brain. Only then can you have complete relationship with mind.
This was how he was led into a completely different life.
Feeling Freedom My painting Big Flowers Series and Others
In the boundless world, flower is the brilliant symbol of life. The wide variety of flowers is like the wide variety of lives and the brilliances are also tremendously different. Flower is just a symbol which might be related to the spirit of freedom. Therefore, flower is transformed into colors, polishing, water and ink rhyme, lines and taste under my brush. Flower which is not flower is flower, Flower which is not this flower is the right flower. The natural attributes and specific forms of flowers cannot be deeply studied and are not very important in my paintings. I would like to paint my feeling, my understanding and expression of life and brilliance.
Then a tall lady walked out calmly. Her gorgeous red hair was flashing and attractive, her face rosy; but somehow he knew that her rosy face was not genuine but the colour of make-ups. She had such an untrammelled strong scent which stood her out even in the horde of flowers. Other girls could only stare at her in silence with jealousy.
To the next chapter: The Funeral of the Dandelion 
Here are some excerpts from my Studio Miscellanies:
He didn't even look back when that little bit of uncovered ground disappeared far behind him, although his wings trembled helplessly when he thought of it – just at that moment, her withered beauty flashed in his mind, as if her dehydrated body was still lying in his arms weightlessly… He gasped: he was beautiful as before,whilst she aged, withered… That girl, his first flower! But how could her limited life possibly take away his infinite love? Her death inevitably ended her ambition of dominating his love.
Thus, facing all the honors and failures, joys and sorrows, halos and insults, whenever I enter my own studio and my own world of big flowers, my life acquired a free world. I feel the existence of my own vivid life. The essence of life is freedom.
He looked down quietly. The mound, without any covering of grass, looked so empty in the flourishing weeds, as if it was a stolen part of his heart. The stillness around embraced the blue reverie. He fluttered his wings – the velvet blue sky could be seen through the four narrow pieces. Then he suddenly went with the wind, with slices and strings of clouds floating aside, everything so light and free that he didn't even need to flutter his wings.
And the last few moments they spent together were such a nightmare, irrespective for him or her.
…She was losing the water of life. Death came silently. He held her hand – she grasped him with hesitation, that she did not want her terrible face to end his reminiscence of her beauty, but she could no longer bear a departure at this moment. Tears accelerated her miserable ageing. He stared with such a surprise, that all the beauty evaporated from her body and her sweet voice turned to be the horrible pant. It would be too miserable for him to stay with her and see her dying, and there was not enough love left to motivate him anyway. However, death captured all his senses in a unique ferocious way. His soul could not escape the misery, just like how his reluctant hand was grasped by her…
This was a little garden. The elf called it home, since this was where the memory became blurred when he tried to trace it back. Perhaps he was not born here; but he was sure that he grew up here. The garden was a bit messy, just like his fair hair which was also in a mess, because nobody seemed to ever take care of this place – however, they were still beautiful – you could catch the fresh smell of freedom in the air and enjoy the natural messy work done by the autumn wind at its will, both as pleasant as the sunshine of October 1.
The amazing landscape beneath seemed like a rich oil painting polished by the golden sunshine while he was flying away from the little garden. His eyes filled with bright colours, so full, as if they were to spill. But he wasn't even bothered to look back – he knew just so many pretty creatures were looking forward to grow on his newly released heart. He loved all the flowers. He had a warm heart, warm enough to settle these ladies down if they chose to grow there. He needed love.
Many painted girls gathered together, whispering. They soon discovered this shy elf and smiled in different charming ways. He didn't even know how to invite them to dance.
He blushed because of unfamiliarity and curiosity. He had never been to a night feast, since she used to be his sole love and concern at the brief beginning of his permanent life. This feast, however, would definitely add fresh bright colours to his pale experience.
The strong fragrance of various flowers felt like the whispering of love. It seemed to bean extravagant feast. Every flower turned into a fairy lady, waiting for the climax of their whole life to come. He saw many elves like him flying to where the graceful music came from.
Now his senses were filled with flower scents. The happiness that had been unreasonably lost by her persistence once again came into his body. He couldn't help smiling, his attractive, sweet, and warm smile! After closing up his wings, he went through the grass with lively steps, walking to the ball.