Tag Archives: imagination

What Will You Do?

What will you do, God, when I die?

I,
the jar of fire-flies waving through the dark, ( if cracked, will I lie?)

Your secretive well-spring (if removed will the well go dry?)
The craft, the vesture that am I,
To lose all meaning, loosening me from your grasp.

When it is that I go, your cold house will be
Empty of language that made it sweet.
I, the sandals, your bare feet
Will seek and long for passage.

Your cloak shall fall from weary bones.
Your glance, my warmth has awakened
will depart.
What wonder will be removed from the mask
and a sun that disappears,
lies now in the lap of unknown stones.

What will you do, God?

-Joshua Fleming (remixing a translation of Rainer Maria Rilke)

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Juxtapositions

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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.

-Josh Fleming

Image by: Unknown

Hemispheric Personality Test

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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?

-Josh Fleming

Image by: Arjan Janssen

http://butdoesitfloat.com

ARTISTIC CONVALESCE

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Art can be seen as the manipulation of perception into form. As artists we can only attempt to craft something that not only speaks to that of ourselves, but to others in such a way that opens them up to a new sense of fidelity and understandings of themselves and their world. Wether by facing some harsh truth, swallowing of denial, or by feeling compassion and the wealth of beauty pigmented on the page before them, possibly reflecting back some sense of gnosis or understanding. No matter what creative form or lack of form an artists comes upon to shape and mold, even if it is formless, as in a meditation, or the orality of spoken language crafted into a story, or the immeasurable immensity of which we call music, I believe it can still root itself in a form, root itself in the heart of the listener.

As we pass through galleries, street corners, skim through books, or digital bits of information trailing images across a lighted screen, it is up to us as observers wether we consider ourselves artists or not, to discover what we will. The art itself wether visual or written possibly does not hold enough innate ability in its occurrence to fully or always impact the viewer as much as when the viewer holds his or her respective candle up and within their own creative, subjective, imaginative or objective capacities they gaze upon the mysterium within its expression, to then illuminate the art for themselves in their own personal way of knowing or gnosis. So it is up to the artists to create the stage, but it is up to the observers to walk out upon it.

-Josh Fleming

Image by: Elfie Kalfakis

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

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

Between The Lines

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Imagination, my child. Memory has no control of what we remember, our eyes alone can still cry out. We must overcome our rage and disgust and see that they are shared by others. Discipline, you’re bleeding all over. Let the mind find its own way about. Between reality and the account you give of it, there is your own life, which magnifies reality. Bending the fatal arc of the universe, dew of humanity, drawing up and concealing its frontiers between first light and the emergence of the sun, between the eyes that open and the heart that remembers. Fulfill with regard to others what you have promised to yourself alone. That is your contract.Thrust into the unknown, which burrows deep. Force yourself to keep turning. In the darkness of our lives, there is not one place for beauty. The whole place is for Beauty.

– Remixed by Josh Fleming, words take and rearranged from Hypnos, Rene Char

Image by: Andy Lee

http://www.andylee.co