Tag Archives: Earth

The Mimic and The Mimesis

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Nomadic agency was quilted on the farm

boundaries-patterns emerge,

to be sewn to the edge of what feels to be safe—————distanced from the phenomena yet to be encountered.

Demarcated threads of who we are, who we were

stitched in prior knowledge of space—

-a background of unchanging identities carries no light to the edge of the pier.

Horizontal lines of earth and fire

transversed by the vertical,

the depth of air and water.

Boundaries-patterns dissolve in the sinking abyss

rising over the reflections—the many faces we wear

flying out on the wing,

receptivity to the space-between the mirror and its projections.

Let us begin with the unexpected.

-Joshua Fleming

Image by: Yamasaki Ko-Ji

http://www.yamasakiko-ji.com

 

 

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The Mimic and The Mimesis

tumblr_ofw9lje1Ww1vjn0soo1_1280.jpg

Nomadic agency quilted on the farm
boundaries-patterns emerge,
to be sewn to the edge of what feels to be safe—————distanced from the phenomena yet to be encountered.

Demarcated threads of who we are, who we were–stitched
in prior knowledge of space—a background
of unchanging identities carries no light to the edge of the pier.

Horizontal lines of earth and fire
transversed by the vertical,
the depth of air and water.

Boundaries-patterns dissolve
in the sinking abyss,
rising over the reflections
the many faces we wear
flying out on the wing,
receptivity to the space-between

-the mirror and its projections.

Let us begin with the unexpected.

-Joshua Fleming

Image by: Yamasaki Ko-Ji

http://www.yamasakiko-ji.com

Movements

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Are we racing back towards our beginning, entranced in futures-past, is tomorrows technology the high priestess, the culmination point, is time seeding itself from branch to root, from the earth to the heavens, are we working our way back through the archives of an encrypted code entombed in the earth to establish telemetry within the heavens or are we moving forward through the heavens to re-establish communications within the earth. Will we stay within digital dreams forever or settle back into analog notions, could we be entangled in-between two strings, not knowing which end to untie and which to tie together.

If the shoe fits don’t where it.

Time bending upon the axis of a circle squared.

Tripping over the laces of reality.

Walking without rhythm the bear feet feel the drum of the earth.

Yet wearing the socks of logic makes winters frost warm the toes.

The square gives pause and boundary to the circles curvature.

Cornering on the right angles of reason.

Walking in step to feel the measure of the heavens.

Paradox, the Mighty-ReArranger. The end. Or possibly just the beginning.

-Josh Fleming

Image by: Jorinde Voigt

http://butdoesitfloat.com

Heads or Tails

eyes

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

Conversations

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To take “the winged energy of delight”, to bring it down, from the heavens, to drag its perfection, its clarity, in and through the muddy bog. What it thought it once new, what it wants to remember. Mother Amnesia comes and buries it well in the dark soil, to allow it to seed in its depths, to collapse its light under its own shadow. To root itself in dank forests or branch upward through the slender cracks of concrete in some dirty sulfuric city street, wondering how the fuck it found itself here, shackled in some ghetto wasteland. Somebody else’s war. Somebody else’s disease ridden trough. As bones chew against the wall, as the flesh weakens in doubt, forgetting its appearance. The tumor says that there is not much time, growth is in its final decent. Empires still rolling-roman bones, a wilted dandelion starves to taste the air, as the morning dew still returns, to wash the unclean, settling ever so gently on all things. So if our wings be clipped, if they still be dripping with that thick blood, brutally amputated with the dull rusty blade of indifference, deformed gnarled stumps, where once great mountains grew forth, 10,000 fiery feathers burned inflamed in knowing a presence that cannot be defined or defiled. So, if you find yourself drunk and stumbling within your own chaos, some horrible haunt that wrecks your dreams, look up and look down. As you grew out through the cracks in the skye, the cracks beneath these burial grounds. You arrived to learn, of things that only such a life could teach you. Arriving to restore, some place amongst your ancestors. To cultivate, from where ever they began. To grow out from that centre, to strive, to move towards that conversation waiting to be had. Where once stood a wilted petal, stepped upon and torn, blown out and drifting over desolate places. Until that seed was caught, by your hand and instructed not to fear, instructed to release its grasp on such thing it cannot control, instructed to refashion itself from this seed, to shape itself within this form, to grow within this frame, to know its boundaries and its reason, to work within the patterns, is where you’ll find yourself, yet always keep an ear towards the sea-wall.

“Just as the winged energy of delight
carried you over many chasms early on,
now raise the daringly imagined arch
holding up the astounding bridges.

Miracle doesn’t lie only in the amazing
living through and defeat of danger;
miracles become miracles in the clear
achievement that is earned.

To work with things is not hubris
when building the association beyond words;
denser and denser the pattern becomes––
being carried along is not enough.

Take your well-disciplined strengths
and stretch them between two
opposing poles. Because inside human beings
is where God learns.”

-Josh Fleming

Muzot, Febuary 1924

Rainer Maria Rilke, translation by Robert Bly

Image by: Robert Gutierrez

Resplendent Empathy

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Rhythms peer out over the pulse, a hawks hood of feather, tracks of impression left indebted to follow. An edifying return, warm laps of wind, thinking not of thoughts, but rather in an exchange of inference, an inflection of speaking wisdoms embodied by the contours of the foots fall. Free from learned form, to slip gently back into the shadow, to swim out over the hill. Learn to walk slow, listen deeply. Beyond the pattern of the familiar is the groundswell of a breathing world. Such a delicate noose. Poets nurture their craft, to frame the word, the sound, the delicacy of knowing a moment, as it is lifted from the earth and sacrificed to the page. To try and gift some measure as to gleam in the reader’s eye, to awaken some ancient murmur still beating in the cords of the heart. As death comes swiftly for us all, but life is forgiving of borrowed time, as time can be slowed, if we are willing to walk within its pace, to venture into its pasture and lie withs its passage. Engrained in wood are truths evident in speaking, in stone, entombed memories of a shifting perspective. As light gathers behind tall mountains, to tell us a story of our long walk. Will it reside only in the distant flocks of memory, in the grazing stones, or will it blossom in the active imagination of a child. To walk backwards, but gain a forwarding momentum. Beyond the prison walls, a world awaits to be of its company. We are social beings, that have forgotten to invite ourselves over the threshold, to be a guest in this house, to give respect and to be beheld by its revery. Honor can only be bestowed on those that would listen before attempting to speak a language that has gifted its vital ear, its broken back, its breathing breathe, so that we may walk along its spine and bear witness to its story.

-Josh Fleming

Inspired by: Dr. Martin Shaw, Scatterlings

http://drmartinshaw.com

Image by: Andreas Levers

https://www.behance.net/gallery/17617151/The-Modern-World-5