Tag Archives: myth

Para-Flux-Dox-Uations

paradox-3

What if all things are in flux, in-between paradox and reason, in-between life and death, you and I, darkness and light, that and this, this and that, self and other. What if God is a dream and you are the dreamer, what if Jesus never really died, what if he was just a story, what if Buddha always lied, or never spoke at all, what if buddha was not a saint, nor a prince, but just someone going on unnoticed by the crowds, the ones that we will never read about. What if you said yes, before saying said no. What if those headlights didn’t blind her sight, didn’t cause her to go off course, what if she is still right here with us, what if the universe or universes, has still not yet exploded into being, flowing backwards towards that beginning, two-mirrors two-reflections starring back towards the beginning, and back towards that end, what if the cycles, the stories are all bending, twisting and spiraling round a great gyre, a golden Möbius strip of infinite possibilities. What if the stories of old hold the revelations of tomorrow and the stories of tomorrow hold the truths of yesterday. The seeds are the tree and tree is out walking. What if that day you walked away, some part of you stayed, does it really matter what we try and define, what we try and hold true, or does it matter more than anything, does everything depend upon it, are you the pivot, the fulcrum, everything holding purpose in its place, will it all unravel, becoming known and unknown at the same time, burning and blurring two flickering candles at both ends, burning from their ends towards their beginnings and their beginnings towards their ends, should we run in fear towards that great darkness, that great forgetting, or should we walk, stepping slowly with patience and dignity, with courage and love in our hearts, as witness’s of a story being told, being sold through our perceptions and our actions, being dreamt and being the dreamer. Let us sleep ever so deeply and let us dream ever so boldly, let us wake in our slumbers, and let us wake in our dreaming. Let us forget to remember and let us remember to forget, let us always remember that we never forgot, let us never forget that always have remembered. All things are in flux, in-between language and logic is another world spinning, in-between that world is language and logic holding a conversation. Science and Spirit tearing flesh from bone, Spirit and Science tending to each others gardens. Let us move beyond, moving forward by moving backwards and let us move backwards by moving forward. The Great Trickster is not a fool, Chaos does not wish to steer us off course. Only hoping that we will find it, these paths for ourselves, and rise to the stern of our great ship, the ghost returning to its shell, the captain to its helm, that is your story, our stories, all waiting to be heard, expressed and experienced. Something is feeding back into that Great Serpent swallowing its every beginning and its every ending, each seeds for the other, shedding its skin, to wear a coat of arms of the ancestors and of what is still to come.

Parafluxdoxuation is a prescription to be used only as a topical ointment, its salubrius qualities are of the highest order, it is to be applied when only absolutely necessary and it is never to be confused for a steady diet or meal replacement plan meaning applying it obsessively to all areas of contrast and confusion in ones life. It has highly addictive qualities that may lead to never making a fucking decision ever again. On a few distinct occasions it has been documented in clinical trials that one may dissolve in subatomic transubstantiation, evaporating into the ether upon a complete axis reversal of electron spin resonance, where in we must then re-quantum-locate your approximate momentum and position in space-time using previous technologies from the quantum leap series coupled with a rubik’s cube written with nordic runes and then reallocate some constitution of semblance of  you that may or may not be of the same quality or form as before. Side-effects may include synesthesia, chromatic aberration, quantum disassembling and reassembling of parts at random intervals, i.e, like having a cactus for an appendage, or the arm that you had in 3rd grade, in a few cases the male penis or female vagina may have become their own animate entities, where in they would not engage in sexual relations unless they the animate penis and or vagina where given the stage to recite romantic poetry, mostly sufi and greek poems pre- intercourse. Given the above possible side-effects please consult your local physician, physicist and or shaman before applying.

Parafluxdoxuation also acts as an anti-itch cream for the hemorrhoids of existence, to relieve the occasional surface tensions of reality, lubricating the annals of history and your place within its folds. 

-Joshua Fleming

Image by: He Xun, Empty Baggage, 2013

http://www.theworldofchinese.com/2016/03/painting-the-paradox/

 

Advertisements

Under The Canopy Of Zeus

www.krishnapath.org

We are surrounded by arcs of light, spheres of confluence and influence, yet we fail to collectively notice the brilliance, the animate force within and without. The genius loci of the local expressions, the moss on stone holds the truth of your memories, mirrors for the moment. Cosmic radiations reflecting photosynthetic gradiations, the macro-scopia needs the micro-scopia as much as the micro-neisacs needs the macro-nesiacs. The world(s) needs your attention, your directed gaze, your passionate intensities. So lay down your qualms, your arms, your worries and doubts, cross reference the books with the trees, and the trees with the books. Invaluable is the imaginative—generative— creative—compassionate—reciprocal—investigative—logical processes of the universe becoming known. On the seventh day, when we rest our beliefs our conceptualizations of what we thought we knew with what is becoming known.

-Joshua Fleming

Image by: Unknown, Nikola Tesla is quietly reading under the canopy of Zeus, storms of activity, thoughts electric becoming known.

The Atlantic Meets The Emerald Isle

Whats

The search for reason ends at the shore of the known; on the immense expanse beyond only the sense of the ineffable can glide.

We do not leave the shore of the known in search of adventure or suspense or because of the failure of reason to answer our questions. We sail because our mind is like a fantastic seashell, and when applying our ear to its lips we hear a perpetual murmur from the waves beyond the shore.

Citizens of two realms, we all must sustain a dual allegiance…

– Abraham Joshua Heschel, 1990: 1-2

-Image by: Josh Fleming

-Josh Fleming

Rumination’s On The House Of Spheres:

article00

A Discourse On The Nature Of Things

A Manifesto of Humor and Its Place as Possibly the Highest Form of Philosophical Reasoning and Knowing

If ever you come upon some quieted suspicions, that maybe, just maybe the Universe(s), is just merely an accidental expression of itself, or a fucked up physics experiment in the lab of some alien adolescents basement, a conversation between a madman and deranged woman, a monocular-myopic all seeing eye-grey bearded overlord, a polyphasic panoply of interchanging waves and particles-expressions of a flower and seahorse, or of a Hindu and Canadian, or a frisbee stuck upon the roof, that becomes a belief system constructed possibly under the influence of mind-bending intoxicates and recreational sport, aptly called “Frisbeetarianism: the belief that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and gets stuck.”, or an explosive corrosive interpenetration of hostel and loving forces of which we have to attempt to mitigate, by syphoning and straining the alchemical bad bloods with that of good, or possibly that it is all of these things and much more, possibly that it holds or contains or rearranges its many houses, just as we shed our sense of fashion statements, possibly it has one of the most, dare I say dark, witty, loving, adaptive, creative, imaginal and ever expansive sense of humor(s) than you or I could ever afford to grasp, then at least your suspicions may rest in the moments of your most uproarious laughter that floods your every vein, as all the rivers, tributaries and streams of your being collapse together in a precious moment of spontaneous acceptance of that very moments occurrence, the kind of laughter thats painful in the gut, that makes you weep, and stretches a smile across your entire being. The kind of moment that can be found not only in laughter, but in silence, in dream, in conversation, in creative explorations of art and science, in religions and spiritualities, in the birth of a child, in learning how to walk tall again, the kind of moment when all of the Adams-Atoms and Eves-Electrons come together to say hello and that your doing just fine, to keep up the good work, to honor this sense of expression, that is a form of quasi-zen-enlightenment in that in the moment of full on engagement, the worries, doubts, and theories, all fuck off and allow you and possibly that of others surrounding to participate in a shared sense of much needed unity and in a compassionate attentive, “Creative-Expression” of release and containment.

At the end of any manifesto worth its weight I believe a belief system should be constructed in its honor and then quickly burned away in a effigy of itself before any one person could fatally-choke or swallow the contents, thereby absorbing a distorted sense of nutrition that becomes a diet and not a medicine, reorienting its meaning, internalizing some half-truth to lead them upon, walking their thoughts out on a leash, pissing on anyone else’s fire, anyone else that thinks otherwise.

In lieu of creating a proper cultish-religious-unorganized architecture I have developed a concept that may be used I believe without any unwanted side-effects, yet please consult your own self-reflective questioning authoritarian of a maturated perfectly groomed sense of ego, or even your astral-ass-hole brother or sister of a soul before administering these words.

To be of Creative-Humorousa is to simply be a part of being a humorousa-disciplinarian or of Humorousive-Disciplinarianism, whereby any entity is allowed to freely and openly engage in the activity of divining compatible humorousive qualities which may corrode or degrade divisive, cynical, or proper-reality sets, to interchange ideas and values, to shape-shift into the seat of your opposite or enemy and say damn I see your point, but I don’t find your chair that comfortable, or just to simply laugh at your inability to fully grasp even the concepts as they dribble off your chin, its also respecting and expecting a return from laugher, to take seriously your work in this life, to move towards some creative legacy that is of your own making, but to also occasionally to enjoy Saturday Morning Cartoons and Sugar Coated Cereals, further more Susan I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised that they all were smoking themselves in the pipe of their own making, to be of and in this Creative-Humorous Temple is to hold a suspicion of beliefs, but welcome any possible faith(s) to instruct or reorder your present syntax, if you are in need of such a tune-up to be performed, a balancing of worn out tire treads, as the roads of life are gravely, dusty and full of shitty pot holes and also full of opportunities that can only exist and present themselves within the same dirty pools laying stagnate in the shitty pot holes of existence itself, for in and along these roads is where we may learn of love through hate, learn of life through death, learn of light through darkness, always try and remember that life and existence maybe of a humorous yet disciplined view of unfathomable creation(s), this may allow you to better adapt to various reality subsets as you continue to wind down your path. So make sure not to forget your “towel”,  for it will be deep, you are going to get wet and very cold in the process, of learning how to swim, but you eventually will find some shore to rest upon for awhile, to warm you bones and to contemplate by the fire of your own making, then to shed yourself of that old skin and swim naked and freely back into that abyss.

-Josh Fleming

Inspired by the Music of: RUSH

Image of: Stockhausen performing at Expo ’70, West German Pavilion, Osaka, Japan, 1970.

Conversations

med_1DC22FE3-ECC7-6C4E-CFBF6970184FCE8C

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

f79e9417617151.5851009d8faa8

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

“The story of Parzival says that there is a lion in us: a lion who opens up its vast jaws to the feasts of court, the tangles of the forest floor, the intrigues of culture, the thin road of the pilgrim. It has spirit-appetite. This lion is independent; willful, focused, sometimes harsh-it cannot be bought. It longs to wrestle with God. The lion consumes emptiness and space with just the same vigor as it settles on fresh meat.”

-Dr. Martin Shaw

From the book, Snowy Tower: Parzival and the Wet Black Branch of Language