Tag Archives: Life

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 is a mother fucker. The end. Or maybe the beginning.

-Josh Fleming

Image by: Jorinde Voigt

http://butdoesitfloat.com

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

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

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