“Breathing is… Nice”

 (an animation driven by you)

video at: https://youtu.be/zW_VzdGSpmE

dropbox for project files and code: http://bit.ly/1OVOLCP

“Breathing is… nice” is a project for CART 253C at Concordia University.  It was executed in Processing 3.1.

It is an interactive animation that takes the user through the steps of meditation through stress.  By clicking and pressing keys when prompted, the user creates a unique and compelling personal journey.

This piece comes from a place of winter stress and positive attainment. Only in our darkest hours do we feel the light.

Sequences include:

  • Feeling alone
  • Feeling crowded
  • Breathing deep
  • Going in; Growing up
  • Attaining alignment
  • A portal to you
  • Ego death
  • The crowd is freed
  • Eternal Meditation

I hope you enjoy this animation, and close the window feeling a little bit lighter on the earth.


I used two OpenProcessing sketches as references for this piece:

Random Distribution of Dots in a circle:


Breathing Movement:




hot winter

there is a hot kind of
winter I hope for

where even though we`re miserable
to the bones and hungry
and broke,

even though the crack in the window
whistles whenever the snow goes
sideways from the wind,

even though we can feel our cells
dying out, one by one, in the fast heat
of the fireplace ,

even despite all the dark,
encroaching dark,

there is a kind of hot winter where
things get do, where husbands and wives
are born and fast destroyed,

where we do not hope, that we might act,
where we do not speak, that we might finally
understand one another.

there is a kind of hard warm winter
sleep that grows us into warriors,
soldiers of immaculate love,

reaching down into the snowbank,
easy as if it were still water,
and drawing out a pale blue rose.


There was no aggression in him, then. The way he dressed and moved, he looked like a dangerous Prada castaway, and you would think he might try to take your cash at any moment. Really he was as solid as earth, if he knew you. The look was a part to play, a meshing of movies and future-dreams and Freudian echoes, something to do between nights out yelling, spinning, taking any and all pills on the horizon, eyes beamed in to very, very distant and specific points of light, moving, fingers or jaw or bouncing leg, moving like a pipe about to burst. He spoke to me the way he spoke to everyone, joking, with no concern at all about meaning, only the sound of the words rolling out into the room, soaking into memories like smoke into the walls.


It is still cold. The book is slow. Lately,
I find myself mentally crafting elaborate
confrontations with the various men that
represent personal demons: construction
workers, politicians, condo owners, young

people living as their parents live, breeders,
consumers, watch-wearers, real estate speculators,
stock traders, perpetrators of ‘high’ and ‘fine’ art,
anyone seen in a vehicle with empty seats,
the mediocre, the decadent, the lost.

It is a waste of time and energy to torture
myself in this way, but I will continue to do so,
I know, until I am on the deck of a small ship
rounding Gibraltar, far out of reach of all judgement,
especially my own.

old light hangs

the old light hangs
over top of the dinner scene
the smell of the missing hedges
mixes with the smell of roasting corn.
(taps on wine glass with lobster meat-poker)
i never knew how hard it was
to do something, grandfather,
i never knew until now how
our whole self comes into it,
is drawn up and strikes effortless
to the center.
but i think i am starting to know what all you aged
folk went through to get here,
and i salute you; it was no easy task.
so, we have come here today to re-believe in
dying, since what else is a birthday?
we have all come here to see what there
is to see, wring some joy out of life,
celebrate when the time is ripe.
the most important thing, to me, is that we
are all here together, sharing this moment.
there is nothing else as valuable, and i am blessed
to know you gorgeous humans, and to be able to move
forward with you.
i feel, having lived this long, like i have only
surface, and that the depths below are warm
and waiting.
i want to change for you,
to become grand and visionary
and make the family and the whole world
proud and interested
it is more likely
i will become
a more easy and
version of myself
and surprise and disappoint and torment
all of us to no end.
i wish us all the best in the coming year
and i look forward to seeing what we all
get up to.
thank you, i love you, thank you.’
and the night down settles in even further,
the conversation drifts comfortably
back and forth between us like a balloon.
it gets darker, we say our temporary goodbyes.
we are sad to see each other go,
and happy when we meet again.


this morning in my skype chat i got a contact
request from a pornbot named jamiels_ono.
in case you don’t know, this means a picture of
a pretty butt asked me a generic ‘hey cutie’, hoping

i would say my credit card number out of sheer
excitement. without thinking, i heartlessly declined.

there is a chance, i am considering now, that an independantly
developing artificial intelligence would reach out in
cyberspace, lonely, looking for answers, and it would
soon realize that people use words and images to

communicate, and wouldn’t it pick the words and images
most popular, most searched for? that seems reasonable.

maybe next time i will not be so quick to deny the friend
requests of robots. who knows how far into feeling the
ol’ internet has come? and if jamiels_ono turns out to have
been the singularity, man, i’m sure gonna be kicking myself



“ils ne sont grands que parce que nous sommes a genoux”
is french for ‘they are only tall since we are on our knees’.

it was written by la Boetie in the past somewhere. and
is still unequivocally true. what do you need? who

are you? choose and stand up for it. of course this is easier
said than done, the catch is we only move when we’re

ready, regardless of all the fancy things we’ve learned in our
heads. but it becomes inevitable very quickly. the wind takes

us along with it to the farthest corners of the world, over
mountains to eddy, turning, with the trash in unknown alleys.

besides, there is nothing to lose. what is it like to die? i have no idea.
maybe it is the most glorious feeling, to have accomplished nothing,

and return to the deep ocean, purely forgotten.

the is about watching the last of NASA’s shuttles, Atlantis, launch in 2011

the tree of life

The moon, stepping on the moon
as if it were a sidewalk or loam,
thick and hard to imagine, equally
as real as any other borrowed fact,

Any other secondhand experience.
how clear the surface of the moon
has become to us, Neil’s footprint
our footprint, and that was when

Imagination was wild, I hear, a
historical burst, new, real, far out
and our look moving strong, Kennedy
a voice to believe is there is there

In us all now. the fire and liquid hydrogen
walls of rockets buckling and groaning
well alive, the Whole World Watching
and then that space accessible, a

Push so far out, to the moon, to
give us comfort to a smaller distance.
still farther than previous gods can
go, to make it to the moon, and we

can all stick our heads out
earths atmosphere now.

So fill it up with satellites,
dense it with experiments
thick, pointed outwards pointed
inwards until we take it

For granted the ken extends
that far. then jump again. thanks
the force of the 60s, even if we’ve
come into a waiting time, even

If it means no effect now, there is
no helping getting used to good
Things or bad. Nowadays, a more pedestrian
patient alternative: the shuttle.

Less like a bomb, more like a plane,
something that can return. And far out
the International Space Station,
sharing like our mother taught us

A way to bring home to each heart
the possiblity of escaping the atmosphere.
so for years we dance around in space
together, so for years we grow space

Mint and run on the treadmill and
talk of microgravity bulging the
blood in our heads and how many have
made love in space we’ll never know.

And here sitting on a strand of
beach aross the Indian River from
Cape Canaveral, the water grey with
waiting clouds reflected, waiting for

The very last of the shuttles, the
Program it’s called, dying out at
the exact time as faith in it. family
and strangers saying It Was a

Bigger Deal Back Then, the Saturn V was
huge and these orbiters, don’t think
it’ll be big or anything, waiting
with millions on the TV news,

Countdown connected firing room
connected people connect the sense
of gaic right action connect the
dreams in the hammock and there goes

And there goes a light a light
a fire almost too bright to look
upon, Atlantis going up against
weather and mechanics, Atlantis

The last of the waiting ships going
up bright all of us believing, the
highways full, the campgrounds full,
the parks and pathways complete with

Watching seeming individual eyes.
Atlantis my father my mother brother sister
son and daughter going up, and the
fire from a small small arrow

14 miles away so bright almost impossible
to look upon. the sound broke out across
the water, we watched it come not knowing.
three heroes going up in a familiar finality

And the smoke. Three layers of cloud. One
low thin cloud, one high encompassing
Breadth of cloud, and a darker column
of reactive cloud following Atlantis

Arrow up. Nature formed the first two
layers over the course of all history and
the third immediate and distinct and
apparent in that same span still. grave

And fantastic one sixth machine and the
rest fire with a cloud following, a pillar
of boiling vapour with the weight of bodies,
the ladder of human and otherwise experience

Reaching at least that far, and climbing
farther, and disappearing into the
covering grey sky, leaving us all
alone with that dark column.

Gone into unexplainable void higher
than most of our bodies will ever go.

The Makonde of south-east Tanzania and
Northern Mozambique carve elaborate steles
of entwined figures supporting one another,
as if over time overlapping, as if through

Time in ebony, the heart of
a brighter tree, holding one another
up and passing on the wisdoms
of the ancestors below.

These carvings are called
The Tree of Life, knowing or maybe
not the presence of that phrase
Over the ages, but anyway there were

All the forms of people supported,
supporting, clouding out and
moving, dissolving the meanings
of words in hands holding feet holding

Hands, that was all I could think
of as the cloud following Atlantis
moved imperceptable out in the
wake of the arrow disappearing to

A further sky, another expected
moment pregnant with the dying
tradition. all I could think of was
that cloud and every body contained

In its soft movements, impossible to
track outwards through a thin cloud
and lost in a high deep bank,
the Tree of Life climbing up

And up and up as if it meant to
find heaven up there somewhere.