Tag Archives: spirit

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/

 

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 Supposition of Superpositions:

4887fb35e8b59799f0d53a85c7dd8848

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.

Driving Home

Bucketheadlandold

In the valley of a pathless night, who will remain? Dressed in sweet honey, fiery hearth of new life, drunk on what is left to behold. I dreamt of a god, cloaked in song, eternal markets hum, the smile of a mind salient, lifted in perceptual tone. The mythic current of sonic textures re-establishes its connection. Death is only with what cannot follow, without its ragged edge we would wither, the unknown is the imaginative force. The mortal soil is the generative phenomenon of evolutions curse, to bury its dead, is to bathe in rebirth, in baptisms of solitude. Within the emotive breath of this song a memory conjures that is not my own.  

-Josh Fleming

Inspired by: Buckethead, Whispers Way and Coupon and words remixed and recycled from The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart.

Image by: Unknown

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

Entrance

 

9a78e634953461.56e3f26f1358f

Something passes through my contented gaze, for a brief moment it wears the suit of my soul. It dares to sit within this silence, releases the heavy armor. To feel the tether so connected to its source, far flung out into the depths of this wilderness. Not to bed with solitude, but to remain in communion, in accord with a pact not to be forgotten. 

-Josh Fleming

Image by: Maria Reshetnick

https://www.behance.net/gallery/37489809/simple-cat