The Spirit

Allow me to define what I mean when I use the word spirit here: the fundamental inner and outer truth of each individual’s conscious experience, the present experience which at it’s most bare is less an individuality and more a complete unity with all of existence. The unity of which came from before any of us were born and into which we will return to when our time comes to an end. When I describe the spirit of the present, what I mean to describe is the present happening as it is beyond all language, category, preconceived ideas, memory, etc—i.e. the most essential perception of being, the child-like wonder, the perspective of knowing nothing.

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the staircase
is far from me
and as I climb
it remains
far , a sound
grows through
the mountain , a trumpet
wind melody , I imagine
no player

I only hear the song

I am convinced
there’s no use climbing
any longer ,
so I stopped halfway ,
just to sway
from now until then
where the birds
used to tumble
there is a hollowed , emptied
space

for which half lit phrases
echo into every possible
shape ,

receding down
into the woods
left ravaged by the borers
where the grasses
despite desolation ,
reach up into the mist
to stir the milky light
with their sprites ,
white

misplaced within future
a terrible wreck
bobs on the surface
gnarled metal ,
in mist’s embrace
softening

left out in the rain
to disappear ,
and become
once more ,
at least
once more

I sit down in the silence
with my back
against ,
a hollowed ash
its only living branch
sways above me

I am humming that melody ,
those half-lit notes
briefly tug at the stillness
before wetting the dirt —

and beside the rain
I only hear the song

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photographs and poem by a. vos

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I lifted my hand parting the space between my eyes and the wall.
Wintery veins run beneath my skin
draped over pillars of bone,
they meet at the wrist before
rushing together toward the elbow,
I feel a collision in my shoulder until
finally they enter the dark of my chest.

curled up in a great silence
a heart contracts alone in a field
bending the night around it

The wall was here before I arrived.
It has thrown a great evergreen by
the roots, it lies lodged in the plunge
scattering temporalities and electricity,
there is not a gap on the face of stars
which have not succumbed to moss.

at my crown rivers converge
scattering light like a prism
silence carries thunder carries silence

The wall gathers in heat at the base of my skull.
Thinking of its own permanence
it theorizes a single point
from which it emerged into being.
Parting the space between my eyes and the wall,
I angle a mirror and leave it there.

dark blue bleeds out of purple
a heart contracts alone in a field
bending silence into thunder into weeping

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In case you missed it—this past month I shared a new piano/ambient piece titled “halos” on all streaming platforms, you can listen here: https://ffm.bio/adotvos

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for general inquiries: austinvos.music@gmail.com

whispering moss
how long
do I have to walk

with arms that huddle
under rain

they made mirrors
below me

it’s getting dark
I’m afraid—
to be lost

watch—they said
as they scattered the sun

light of nectar falling into mud

there are more shades of green
than there are seconds in a life

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This week I released a piano piece called ‘ halos ‘ on all streaming platforms — It’s a meditative piece, a swirling of field recordings, synth textures, with piano at the heart — ripples on the surface of a lake, halos.

Listen here: https://ffm.bio/adotvos

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If you are new here and enjoyed this work, please consider subscribing. If you would like to become a paid subscriber it would help me a lot at this moment.

Watch my short films on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@floatingincensesmoke
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I had a dream of green hills
rolling far and away over the horizon
laying smooth against jagged peaks
in an undulating silence

If you wait there long enough
when the sun rests its fingers
in the nape of the cool grasses
the hills will shake in the wind

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as it motions their time has come
raising their necks toward the sky
upon the shoulders of the white oaks
they paint the virgin walls of the heavens

us beasts trample carelessly
through gold and lavender beds
rolling ankles over dusty stones
to lower our heads into the brook
that flows from the root of the billowing slopes

-

listen closely to the frogs
they hide here from our cities
and know the aimless directions
the hardy trunks of white oaks bend

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we have come here to see
the inkwell of their eyes
fill with the colors of this life

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as the sun wanders away
leaving us to drink from the moon
in an undulating silence

I am A. Vos, an artist currently residing in Portland, Oregon. I really appreciate you taking the time to engage with this work. A lot of time and effort goes into these offerings, so please consider becoming a paid subscriber for five dollars.

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Shiragiku 白菊

steam is rising
from the old hot spring
and the town is gone
Shiragiku 
white chrysanthemum 
fills my lungs

do you carry the candle? 
walking into ash
do you carry the candle? 
child of the past 

in Italy I saw a face

who's this stranger
speaking language
I've yet heard before
they took me 
into their home
of waterfalls

do you carry the candle? 
walk right into wax
do you carry the candle? 
my child of the past 

in Italy I saw a face
that I could never erase

will you carry the candle? 
walking into ash
do you carry the candle? 
child of the past 

in Italy I saw a face
that I could never erase

-a. vos

Thank you so much for taking the time to engage with my work. If you enjoy what I’m doing here, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. New paid subs will get a photo print in the mail with a hand written note as well as access to download all of my music releases if you’re into that sort of thing.

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When I originally released this song back in September I had quite a small reach, so I thought I’d use this as an opportunity to engage some new ears. I’ll preface that this track may seem a little unconventional, but when I listen back I find a truth captured within it that I am quite pleased about. When I recorded this song, over ten years had passed since I’d last touched a viola, the first instrument I ever learned. As I pulled the bow across the strings, I was a child once again spinning emptiness into poetry.

If you enjoyed this film it would be a great help if you could give the video a like on Youtube and here on Substack and also share it with others who it might connect with.

‘ peering into silver water ‘ is available on all music streaming platforms: https://ffm.bio/adotvos

If you use instagram, consider following me there— https://www.instagram.com/a.vos__/ '

with love ,

— a. vos

P.s. Paid subscribers will now receive a post card sized photo print with a hand written note when they sign up.

-

If you enjoyed this film it would be a great help if you could give the video a like on Youtube and here on Substack and also share it with others who it might connect with.

I also want to thank each and every person who has been following along as I shared daily photos and writings over the past several months, your support and encouragement have meant so much.

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I wish you all a wonderful Spring ,

a. vos

In cold mountains there are flowers to eat

I left myself
locked behind a door
asleep

steam bloomed
over
gentian blue streets ,

I saw no one ,
and they were
whispering 

in cold mountains
there are
flowers to eat 

I heard water rushing
beneath 
every stone and weaved
through silver pipes ,
the veins of vining leaves 

laughter
from a stairwell splashed free , 
drew mist before
the shadow
of Togakushi 

lanterns bowed their heads , lanterns
rest their eyes ,
I was a trespasser
with god's permission

in the onsen
myself steeped ,
drifting
lungs swelled within heat

against clouded mirrors
my sleeping mind heaved , 
narrows unfurled
their perfumed sleeves ,

deep earth
medicine , sulfur
swirling , black
tea ,

until I woke
myself
to gentian blue streets ,

I slid open
the door 
using god's keys

to whispering lanterns ,
my limbs offered
steam , 

in cold mountains
there are
flowers to eat. 

- a. vos 

Photos taken November, 2025 in Nagano Japan.

I’d like to thank each and every one of you for your support. For those who would like to contribute more than your attention, I have enabled paid subscriptions.

P.S. I dream of making a photo book some day (soon), let me know if this is something you’d be interested in. If you happen to be a publisher who can make this happen please reach out.

As we stepped further into the gorge the view became so clouded that the terrain appeared only close, lost otherwise against the decorated faces of the ravine. You were so afraid it was going to flood, but what was clear is that the flood had already come to merge with the land and stoke the rivers and streams. It was as if we were following along arteries toward some beating heart that could lay around every subsequent corner.

I’ll admit I too felt a tinge of fear, that of rocks careening down from places I couldn’t see, of animals seeking shelter within shadows, even more than that I feared the presence of strangers along the path, you can never know a strangers intentions. This fear carried me however, in a heightened state, further into the realm of the living. And soon I began to feel deeply in my core an ineffable sensation that we were both the rain and the river and there was no reason to be afraid.

As we continued further the path became more obscured by the hanging mist, in the hearth of alpine firs the shadows deepened. I remembered I might have been looking for something, there was supposed to be a waterfall, a delicate one, at a break in the river if we wandered far enough in. You were beginning to drag behind, I was moving ahead like an excited child trying to escape the limits of my small world. Just a little further I said, and you began to doubt me.

You were ready to turn back, but time had yet to run thin, I could still see the hands spinning beneath the thumb of the sawing river. And as we rounded another corner I could hear a faint roar growing with my every step, but what we encountered there was not the delicate falls I had expected, it was a violent, almost formless display against the moss covered walls of basalt, like a thousand syncopated hammers striking the river, thunderously ringing out into the gorge. As I stood at the foot of it for several minutes breathing the damp air, I felt the mountains looking over my shoulders.

Recently I got back from a solo trip to Japan. I walked nearly a hundred miles. I didn’t actually do very much thinking in the way I anticipated. But upon my return one thing was very clear to me, that more than anything in this life I want to capture truth and beauty and share it with others.

For now please enjoy this piece of music, and a few photos from a Zen temple in Kyoto.

A. Vos

out on all streaming platforms

click here to listen on your platform of choice

peering into silver water

my brother clean and white
fighting fire in the august night
at dawn he'll rinse his hands
feed the meadow in the low lands

one stream carries silt
the other carries nothing

lost until the wings beat
great blue heron at the crest of the stream
her spread arms cover me
with a shadow shouldering
sternum on the rail
peering into silver water

pour yourself in
the heron said
pour yourself in

cascade down feldspar stairs
spin the fins of the old mill there
where blue eyed grasses grow
from the ash of the burnt down homes

and will they find you there
looking for the sky? 

to pour yourself in
the heron said
pour yourself in

with blood in my eyes,
peering into silver water 

click here to listen on your streaming platform of choice.

thank you for listening and for your support,

a. vos

I would consider myself a politically conscious person, I recall almost a decade ago passionately discussing automation and the vast potential it had to bring liberation to humanity as a whole, I was cautiously optimistic, but optimistic I was. Growing up I was a bit of a science kid, endlessly curious and excited about the cutting edge of technology. And here I am now, supposedly the same consciousness as my eight year old self, taking a look around at this world, how could the child in me not feel an immense sadness at the state of things? This I believe to be true—humanity’s capability to solve its greatest problems will never triumph over the religion that is unregulated capitalism. There are many who would rather lay waste to our Earth—our Mother—in the ego driven pursuit of conquering the planets and the stars in the name of science, progress, and survival. The promise of meritocracy is and always has been a mirage within such a system, the career I chose, out of what at the time felt like necessity, is now shoulder to shoulder amongst countless others on the killing floor—not by AI, AI is simply the conduit, the convenient excuse—the hooded executioner is of course, the business owners who believe AI is the g*d-sent answer to their bottom line.

At such a pivotal moment where it is clear we must invest further in our education system in order to overcome the withering of our society, the oligarchy chooses to instead kneecap the entire system. So many things which I hold so dear, things which may take patience to fully comprehend, but are the most nourishing, are so widely overlooked and misunderstood at large, it’s a tragedy in and of itself. Throughout history great art was propped up by the elite, the kings, the extraordinarily wealthy, now the people in those roles don’t understand art at even the most fundamental level. Their souls are withered, filthy, putrid—they are hollow men whose every movement is in the pursuit of further wealth and influence. Every structure of their perspective has been built on the foundation of this system.

I remember a time when artists, such as the great David Lynch, would spit in the face of the very concept of product placement in a piece of work, today its so ingrained in every piece of “media” we consume, the very media itself merely exists as a product encompassing a product in reference to a product. In 1996 David Foster Wallace released Infinite Jest, a book in large part written about society’s addiction to entertainment, he would roll in his grave if he knew the horrors of algorithmic doom-scrolling. Furthermore, a common trope in Infinite Jest is that the government of North America, a superstate composed of Canada, United States, and Mexico, has been directly sponsored by corporations, even naming the years themselves after the highest bidding company. Earlier this month, the leader of the free world stood in front of the White House next to the world’s wealthiest man and urged people to purchase said man’s electric vehicles. And that same leader, from the moment he took office, has continuously stirred conflict with our bordering neighbors and Greenland.

At this point it’s clear that this country has been sold, and that the world as a whole may soon follow in the footsteps of America. We have bred selfish people with a low capacity for empathy, and now, especially with AI, an even lower capacity for learning. If you are reading this and too have been feeling this weight, you are not alone, anyone who comprehends this reality has quite the burden to bear. But we are the keepers of our own minds, we rule the barrier of our own kingdoms, each of us have the ability to expand our consciousness and find inner peace regardless of the happenings of the material world. As Brian Eno recently said, the very act of steering one’s attention away from the addictive grasp of social media algorithms is an act of rebellion. It’s more important than ever to crack open a book, to watch a film which requires a bit of patience and openness, and listen to music that may not hook you at first listen.

To paraphrase Marcelle Proust in In Search of Lost Time—the things which at first are often overlooked, but after some time will eventually reveal themselves to us, are the ones most worth treasuring. These are the things which we will carry with us through a lifetime, the ones which deepen our understanding of the world around us.

The air has changed, I am moved by the scent of something like smoke and sugar blowing through the streets, the gold and rust of waning leaves on branches bowing to the wind, falling like confetti on the sidewalks, and the cotton sky like soft paper for colors to bloom over the shortening days. The texture of all this etches deeply upon the standing walls of my mind. I want to go out walking, I want to have a drink on some patio with a fire burning, I want to breathe the sugar and the smoke.

And I wonder if there is more to all of this than just a senses feast. I go back and forth, defining what reality means to me in truth, to elaborate a bit I think of what Bataille and Freud sometimes talked about, the so called “Death Drive,” this idea that humans are driven to the call of passing on, that each of us hold deep within us an innate spiritual desire to leave when it’s our time. Autumn is the motion of this, the falling towards something unspoken and nameless. The inevitability of this cycle, the atmosphere of it, is somehow comforting.

I wonder if a life could be mapped according to the seasons, would that put me within the thralls of summer? No, I think the reaching of adulthood would put most of us within a state of perpetual autumn, burning with brilliant colors as we gradually creep towards the soon to be frozen ground.

tumbling
over
pendleton, or

Listen to my music on all streaming platforms here : https://ffm.bio/adotvos

The light begins to hush from the edges of the sky and slouch into a horizon that is obscured by the softly chiming canopy. With this movement of light, you watch as the dusty shades of fauna, soil, and stone deepen in shadow and color, they appear cleaner in this changing light, and now the birds have stopped singing. Quietude spreads over the landscape like a deeply held breath.

(it begins to rain)

Faint sounds of tapping break the pregnant silence, sparse, distant, and growing closer, uncountable, lapping the hills like a shallow wave while growing into a static hiss, acting upon everything which lives and everything that does not. Leaf and limb begin to sway and shake, a wave passes through the grasses as they bow to the touch of some unknown phantom. And soon the wave moves over you, your skin draped in a sheet of cool rain, clarity. Breathe through the nose and realize the air has become steeped in memories. Iron, petal, soil, grass, moss, death, dreams, divinity— All is rung ceaselessly by downpour, the world’s echo humming within infant ears.

(everything has a sound)

Your perception is swallowed by the rising crescendo of forms vibrating to the sky’s lament. There is no need for vision to walk forward. Every footstep births a sillage of life and decay to rise out of the soil and permeate the air like a perfume. Breathe nature’s umber colors and cascade amongst the living and mineral traces of the land, become washed into the soil as these rhythmic taps drum in syncopation with ten thousand lungs breathing. Dissolve within this kinetic stir of color and form, into the projection you merely watched as a flicker before—perhaps the rain’s intent is this: to erode that which stands in its path, to wash everything into a greater unity.

a. vos

I’ll share whatever boils over here—pieces of music, prose, poetry, who knows. I have no expectation of anyone reading, just a quiet place away from the buzzing of algorithmic machines, a good place to survey the depths—

This photograph is from my last year living in Georgia in 2022. Beyond the glass, my favorite tree at the time, my living calendar. I would sit there and play my keyboard and my guitar, watch the birds move from limb to limb. It often rained, as it does in Georgia, I heard there was a thunderstorm today, how could I not miss the thunder? I conceived many songs in that room, the outlets buzzed through my headphones incessantly, it ruined every recording, but that tree was so full of verdant leaves, or full of the most beautiful decay, brilliant color, and when it was bare, the branches twisted in the cold wind, brushing up against my window, while I played the piano.

a. vos