Tag Archives: Reality

Points Of Contact

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-Josh Fleming

“With this, there is not any one point in which the nature of reality is fully revealed because it is constantly being revealed at every point.”

– Moselle N. Singh:

from Diaphany, a journal and nocturne

 

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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

The List

They drink of dirty pools, without reflection. Scattered refuse layout upon the empty lot, snacks and cups and straws, drawn between two worlds, instruments of a world hungering. The little bird rests on the shopping cart, thinking of all the things its needs to buy, a wife, a car, a foaming latte, some smack, ballistic missiles, vintage clothes, a tear stained memory, a remedy for the parody of reality watching itself watch itself on little TVs, tearing their flesh from their masks, revealing the face of a child, swaddled in fear and denial, as the twirling mobile of the seven sins dangles within their grasp, and finally a can of ready made worms. If a little bird has so much it needs, to fill its little belly, than I wonder how much we shall need to fill our own.

-Josh Fleming

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

“Evidence. : Disguised

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[14:12] ..e45 (u-44) ..thousands of worlds apart, deconstructing the real, what happened in 74, .. what fell away, memories vanished, cut from the faculties of by which we apprehend, :::fucked up the transmission…, how beautiful, but who can remember, one world masks by another, to assemble itself, is to take apart the other, language can speak without ever saying a word, a depth-perception denied, circa: 2(3)74 ::: spatiotemporal axis apprehends the occipital, plasmatic manifesto, intoxicated by the confession, spontaneous information re-orders the syntax, historical regression, what does not perish persists, to be held in awe, in an infinite multitude, endless possibilities, to seek no further, to cherish this moment and behold its resurrection, to seek no further, enveloped in perfect stillness, a birds song anchors my belief and shatters my faith, never have I known, such love, a vital up welling centered upon its pivot , the transcendent abides within its abstraction, to feel its motion as your own, to seek no further, in this house is our home, in this kingdom that holds no master, nor servant, walking without distance, one cannot perceive its end, to seek no further-in this house-is our home.

-Josh Fleming

Inspired by: PKD Philip K. Dick, The Exegesis of Philip K Dick

Image by: Christine Odlund

http://www.christineodlund.se

Article # 36

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The stories we sell, what we choose to read and speak of, if not for you I would stay folded upon the ground, we exist by relation, your story is not your own, but shared by all, influenced by things seen and not, aggregates gather to remember the face, we are not alone, as your existence is my own, tell me who you are, if I should listen, may I learn how we came to be in this moment, but depart before the conclusion.

Image and words by: Josh Fleming

White Trunk

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We are here, never there, if only we could see this as so, come to appreciate the moments given, to hold gratitude in heart for what sustains its rhythm, to appreciate the moments given, if only we could see as it is, not as it has been spoken, to invest our entirety in the wholeness of what is becoming reborn in this very moment. Bless…

-Josh Fleming