Tag Archives: Inspiration

Roll The Dice

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.

go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.

do it, do it, do it.
do it.

all the way
all the way.

you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter, its
the only good fight
there is.

– Charles Bukowski

Street In Agrigentum

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There is still the wind that I remember
firing the manes of horses, racing,
slanting, across the plains,
the wind that stains and scours the sandstone,

and the heart of gloomy columns, telamons,
overthrown in the grass.
Spirit of the ancients, grey

with rancour, return on the wind,
breathe in that feather-light moss
that covers those giants, hurled down by heaven.

How alone in the space that’s still yours!
And greater, your pain, if you hear, once more,
the sound that moves, far off, towards the sea,
where Hesperus streaks the sky with morning:
the jew’s-harp vibrates
in the waggoner’s mouth
as he climbs the hill of moonlight, slow,
in the murmur of Saracen olive trees.

-Salvatore Quasimodo

Image by: John Howe

http://www.john-howe.com/portfolio/gallery/details.php?image_id=4885

 

 

 

Art is a Verb, that needs to hear an echo

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High Art, I believe you were mistaken in your deceit, of an occurrence bleeding symmetries upon a page. What is praised, is lost , if not gifted and given by an authentic gaze. You call them doodles, scratches against the wall, possibilities for perfection. I think you are to humble, I call them the most High. I say your Art was expressed in a form worth sharing as soon as it left your mind and trickled down to the patient hand that circles its emotive and creative nuances like storms, Great Storms, caught in the eye of some drifting falcon, allowing for errors and triumphs to pool together to invoke a feeling not just in yourself of alignments to steady your flight, but any who would choose to witness the same for themselves. To be so bold and put your Art out into the Great Storms of this world is much better than to cage it and allow to it settle, as many have and always well. Dying in some notebook, left in the dark corners of an attic, only to be revived in the eyes of a child sifting through the tattered remains trying to settle and see why the artist had to leave so soon in the ambulance, before being fully acknowledged for their impressions left upon this world, as we are forever indebted to the ongoing processions of the forgotten artists as they walk across this stage.

-Josh Fleming

Image by and poem inspired by: PMu ink, Echo

https://pmuink.com

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

The Supposition of Superpositions:

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The ordinary is introduced to its transcendent dance partner.

May it be that the transcendent experience that occurs seemingly outside of the ordinary experience is Schrödinger’s half dead cat or half alive, or Heisenberg’s not so sure of principle. A quantum entangled tongue, in which language becomes twisted upon its own axis, if it tries to speak of such things. Position and momentum cannot be precisely known, not as individual variants, not as separate particulate expressions, only as one fully involved,  fully evolved, ever informed, whole-fully individuated state, what is the hand and that of the spinning top. That stilled yet beating heart of the black half-dead cat is in-flamed and in-souled, in the process of reaching across that vast expansive unknown table, to pour another cup of tea and finish writing this plea for sanity. May it be in some position in time that the momentum of the soul catch’s up to the position of our ordinary state of mind, or that our ordinary momentum slides into its expansive frame to behold such a view, never truely lost in-between the dusty kitchen blinds. That the ordinary processes can become a resurrected effigy burning away all sense of meaningless mundane propensities, putting on the seventh day suit of the soul, as the alchemic static clings to the shoulder of a man leaning, bowing his head to untangle the twisted and frayed knots, to learn to walk within this shadow and no longer beside it.

-Josh Fleming

Image by: Unknown, possibly a half-dead, half-alive artist, yet Im leaning towards the latter in his or her penciled expression of a concept that eludes our present understanding, yet informs perfectly well by visual incantations the truths of its appearance.

Kurchatovium 104

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Tortured souls of an unhappy communion, as you lay out your daily bread, the ritual cycles of a breathing breathe brings you no fullness, exhaling in a rasp, a ever collapsing lung wondering when death will come. As if we simply forgot, or somebody stole that precious fire, smoke trying to escape the smelting room of the ruined hearts. Why must we taste the bitter bile, we are the smudge sticks of someone else’s making, bound tight and burned, the ritual parlance of a menial existence, but what if, it was of our own oversight. Accepting an apology from a distant notion. That day that they told you what it was, what was meant to be, that moment you crawled into their shell, ever hanging under Deadman’s Tree. The World is not a place to bleed, the stagnate Hexagram of Ku marked across your sweat and brow, we are bleeding all over. The thinning wind blows low against the skirt of the Mountain, in an image of decay, thus the embodied and the emboldened must rise to stir the heavy winds, that lay fallow in the killing fields, to strengthen the people and quicken the spirit. Crossing back over obsidian seas, to begin the work.

-Josh Fleming

“Decisiveness and energy must take the place of inertia and
indifference that have led to decay, in order that the ending may be followed by a new beginning”.

-Richard Wilhelm, Hexagram 18

Image by: Unknown

The end of the poem was inspired by: The IChing Hexagram 18, Richard Wilhelm translation.