Wisdom Speaks Not

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The wise do not know more than you or I, nor do they have some right for our wrongs. The wise know that our perceptions our blighted, obscured by what stories we have crafted. Before thought echoed and returned from the dark mountain, its appearance was of a vasty different shape and form.

-Josh Fleming

Image by: Elfie Kalfakis

https://elfiekalfakis.com/visual-art/collage/

In Other News

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In other News today a incredibly cute kitten was born, Paws, it reached up and tore out the writhing heart of its owner, an innocent child lay dead. Born unto a world sick and transfixed by its own progress, as the human-animal that stood ever so tall, yet dared itself not to peer out over its own prison wall. Into that thinning periphery to see its world become an apparition of itself, as the dark tower crumbles without foundation. The next morning the dew returned and a flower arrived, with no man and no woman in sight to smell its appearance or gaze into its mystery. It continued its path to speak to the sun and speak to the moon, yet it always wondered what it would have been like to hear them speak in return.

-Josh Fleming

Image by: Unknown Alchemist

Programming

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The virtual becomes the actual, upon the axis of a screen never tilted away from the viewing lens, of that deadening eye, blood soaked, weeping, puss lurking from its cataract tombs. As the dead digital fish lay rancid and rotting on the banks of river never meeting the sea. Pixelated bits of information starving for that color of green that was forgotten in its re-visioning, the smell of an hour gone by in the backyard with the whip of the wind through the trees and smoke in the fire, simple worship of a memory never had. As the arc of and measure of our trees are now stacked upon servers rooted in the banks of a dissonant integrity. Polyform integrated values of language morph symbols into the actual, not unlike our ancestors that first scribed letters on the dark stone walls. The ever changing appearance of a world insulated and enslaved by its way of self-directed communications. Not that we should stop talking, but rather that occasionally we should also attempt in listening, without giving it a name, but allowing to enter our hearts and become known in a language that will not be so easy to speak of, but that may allow us to see ourselves before the path. Walking out again from our cave.

-Josh Fleming

Image by: Unknown Alchemist

The Net

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A net that is so big can never catch the scales of single trout, to behold its glistening diamonds parading the infinite values of light from its sun. A net that is so big can never catch a life wanting and waiting to be slowly reeled out into its depths to learn of its appearance in its pond. To surface with dignity and courage, to be reeled back towards that end. Yet to fight, not in fear but in love, as you are pulled to that silent bank and flayed open in that blinding light, gasping for breath not in fear but in love.

-Josh Fleming

Image by: Unknown Alchemist

Live

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Some say the worlds on fire, I say its been burning for sometime. Some say we must stay attached to the fetal monitors, I say sometimes enough is enough. Some say you must be involved in the many affairs of this world, I say to be in bed with one mistress is more than we can afford. As if before the daydream theaters were attached to our lungs we negotiated our terms with any better insights. To be of the space we are in, acknowledging a presence vaster than our own, to work within this caulk outline, this mortal hunting ground. To address all the things we would rather stay censored. As we extend our attenuated gaze at all the worlds problems, fear and worry become the thickening blood, as the feeding begins. Your own malevolent tumors are expanding. As you tend to that flicking flame of static, a warmth that never would come, the droning hum begets its lonely passengers at the centre of its passive controls. Its final directive is its capacity to pacify, to reflect back a version of life painfully edited and ended on a live stream, that everybody forgot to watch.

-Josh Fleming

Image by: Unknown  Alchemist

Heads or Tails

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The ordinary and the extra-ordinary states of being.

May it possibly be of the case that at times things need to be sheered and experienced or expressed as separate distinct notions, to learn anything of value. To feel the real dirt and shit-stained muck of the Earth without Heavens polished bounty or to behold the jewel of light without obstructions from the black soil. As within other times, both sides must be implicitly expressed in and through their opposites, or the actions of the observer, to behold the Heavens within the Earth as well as the Earth within the Heavens. To take out the trash and witness creation itself rising from the refuse and discarded remains, resurrecting in the very moment you fully realize the intensity of any given moment given the intensity of your attentive directed gaze.

Image and words from: Josh Fleming

Original Street Art discovered in Iceland by Unknown Artist

“The Search for reason ends at the known; on the immense expanse beyond it only the sense of the ineffable can glide. It alone knows the route to that which is remote from experience and understanding. Neither of them is amphibious: reason cannot go beyond the shore, and the sense of the ineffable is out of place where we measure, where we weigh. We do not leave the shore of the known in search of adventure or suspense or because of the failure of reason to answer our questions. We sail because our mind is like a fantastic seashell, and when applying our ear to its lips we hear a perpetual murmur from the waves beyond the shore. Citizens of two realms, we all must sustain a dual allegiance: we sense the ineffable in one realm, we name and exploit reality in another. Between the two we set up a system of references, but we can never fill the gap. They are as far and as close to each other as time and calendar, as violin and melody, as life and what lies beyond the last breath.”

-Abraham Joshua Heschel

 

An in-process exploration of writings about life