Through The Looking Glass Of Memories Transformed

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“Today a young man on acid realized that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration, that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively, there is no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves. Heres Tom with the Weather.”

– Bill Hicks

It is the language of the soul or at least one of humanities attempts of speaking with it or through it. The madness of the emerging mind, facing these angels to discover there is another. Tastes a little weird though, trying to eat anything at this hour, the prawns are they still breathing? We need to leave! Something fierce is upon us! They appear to be writhing together in that bowl, as we peel their shells. Your parentals do they know? How could they? We looked perfectly natural, smushing the tails through our filthy fingers. It all started on the beach, its was nice there, safe. It was his first time in the ocean, we all stepped out like explorers upon new lands, instantly shapeshifting with the scene. How the view had changed, a beautiful disaster of spectral colors falling open to the world. How they hell did we get back here with these cronies, trying to force feed us these tiny parasites. I don’t remember exactly how, but we managed to escape them.

It is speaking without tongues, synchronicties are commonplace in this world. Also is this strange pink color shrouding everything. Standing outside for what seems like centuries with the key stuck in the door. As the Fear takes hold, it is only your mother man! Get a grip, she cannot harm you! Walking back inside, the floors disagree, as Lord Tetris and Lord Jinga have copulated all over this place!  Its time to seek shelter, a friend is trying to reframe all of science and physics, running the billiards across the table, he see a system occurring from within, but he’s not gonna give it away, holding that ridiculous looking grin. Life sometime begins and ends in a Circle K, its kind like heaven and hell playing cards together, betting on the next poor sap to walk through the door, although I don’t advise it.

Distancing oneself from the denominator, to speak candidly. It is Christmas day, the lights are still on, what the hell are we doing, out caroling at this hour! Who’s driving, doesn’t seem like a good idea. It feels as a sacrilege not to Christ, but to Christmas itself, to be reborn on a day like today. The journey is still upon us. Sitting on the sidelines, never witnessed a game like this before. The players were not from around here, maybe they have always been here, I guess, maybe. There seems to be no competition nor rules to this game, yet things never really got out of hand. Until later.
Walking through a parking lot, someone had retransposed time, bending space around me or maybe it was the other way around, without my permission anyway, not having my written formal consent. All my thoughts and movements collapsed as they were occurring, only to reappear inconruegntly overlaid upon one another. This was not pleasing, to say the least, so I tried to fight it, tried to splice it back into frame, getting continually thrown back upon the ropes, maybe I should have just thrown in the towel, maybe I would have learned something that way, yet I was so young back then. It was a brutal fight and I lost miserably, but got back up to continue the game.

Singing ourselves awake, so we may rest for a while. Jimmys guitar is weaving round the room, an interior decorator of  sound, changing the colors with each passing note. A statuette of a garden sun rests upon high, entertaining an idea. As its solar rays become like rainbows, pulsing with the ghost plucking the heart strings of all of us. As the tiny silver record spins the consciousness of another onto our own, its taste of honey or harmony maybe. Love thats what it was, could we be so bold to hold this communion with a sound bleeding forth with all this color?

Words and Images by: Josh Fleming

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