Allow the nights intelligence to drift in and through your headdress, removing feathers that hold to much weight, moon whispers under spoke and wheel, lights gathering dust. Allow the days intelligence to break your slumber, sun scattering leaves, dreams piled to high upon your shoulders.
This is how we walk in and through the two towers, the darkness holds the candle as much as the light retains its shadow. It is in the space between that we may find truth.
Image by: Unknown
If A was B and B was A. If each shared their respective crafts, their dreams, myths and imaginations, their observations, calculations and reservations. If logic went out dancing with an axis unknown, if an unknown axis found its pivot, what world would we live in, one of fear and denial, tilted to the curvature of a world slipping off its own edge, or one of love and acceptance, wobbling and counter balancing in daily rotations to find its center.
Does imagination conjure reason in as much as reason conjures imagination?
Image by: Arjan Janssen
Missing the morning eye, bound tight in long walks of slumber. Hanging in dark corners, glimpses of arrangement, the black tent of psyche. Medicine to survive the slip, back into day.
Inspired by: Dr. Martin Shaw, Scatterlings
Image by: Lore Vanelslande
Signals… We awoke to flames of discovery, evoked a topography. Metta-dreams in digital, computations of an ancient code. Analog minds entranced with ecology, a living system expands and extends its invitation. To walk amongst its root and feel its presence as your own. Signals…
Image by: Juan Del’O
So I had a series of dreams last night. They involved a form of time traveling, but within a life I was not familiar with, yet some how new very well. As I found myself navigating through complex shifting landscapes and encountering strange and beautiful ecstatic experiences before my waking. The details and complexities of these fantastic alternate realities seem to rival any known work of art that I have ever experienced in my waking world. So I am left with these questions.
Are our dreams of our own creation, are they some private island found within our minds, a chemical cinema house, were we are the director, the projector, the actor and the audience?
Or are our dreams a place that we are allowed to visit, given a nightly ticket, to interact with and even alter a strange world within our slumber?
Any thoughts are greatly appreciated.
– Josh Fleming
Image by: Lukas Furlan
The archaic mind is still very much alive. Cordoned off, guarded by the high walls of this new mind. The ego has grown in its comforts, resting in its throne. Over seeing all this growth, this want and need. The indomitable reign of control, has a weakness. In its sleep, when it dreams. The archaic is released from its cage, free to roam. Trying reformulate new methods to acquire the keys. The symbols to open the door, to unlock the fear and despair, to open our eyes. It does not forsake us, even as we have forsaken it. It is the love resting behind the fear waiting for us to return.
– Josh Fleming
Image by: Leif Podhajsky