Discussion in 'Extended Consciousness & Spirituality' started by Sciborg_S_Patel, May 9, 2014.
(Revisiting) The Syntax of Sorcery: An Interview with Tom Robbins
From gobbled up thread:
TEDx - How Art Evolves Consciousness - Alex Grey
"Cosmic Creativity - Art is an echo of the creative force that births the galaxies. Creativity is the way that the Cosmos evolves and communicates with Itself. The great uplifting of humanity beyond its self-destruction is the redemptive mission of art."
The whole "Cosmos evolves and communicates with Itself" may seem like some New Age or Eastern belief divorced from science, but the esteemed physicist Wheeler did think about this idea as having real merit, as have scientists Lothar Schäfer & Amit Goswami, physicist & Bohm biographer F.David Peat, and Nobel Prize Winner Brian Josephson.
eta: My linebreaks didn't go through for some reason..
Cave Paintings and Shamanism
What is Visionary Art?
From In The Night Garden by Cathrynne M. Valente:
"They called me Knife. When I was young and my strength was taut as a bow string, I was the best rider of all the young girls. I had many necklaces of jasper and wolf-tooth, three fine hunting knives, a strong bow that I could draw into the shape of the full moon, a quiver full of arrows fletched in hawk feathers, and a wildcat hide from my first kill. All around me were the wild, honey-colored steppes, the fat deer we hunted, and the sleek, brown, fragrant horses I loved. They ran like ripples in a mountain lake. I ran alongside them, and rode astride them, and I slept against their flanks.
I was happy, the sun was high. I had enough."
"It was black, and vast, and all the other things you might expect a sky with nothing floating around in it to be. But the sky was only a sky if you looked at it slantwise—if you looked at it straight, which of course, no one could, because there wasn’t anyone to look any way, it was the long, slippery flank of a Mare.
The Mare was black, and vast, and all the other things you would expect a horse the size of everything to be."
"But after the Stars hid themselves away, the things they touched were still where they had left them, full of light, the light which was blood, and they
glowed with the silver and white of it. And these things were special, flea-bed mine—where they were stones or plants they passed their light into
deeper stones and into their seeds, and where they were people, they passed the light to their children, which diminished just as it had when the
Stars first touched the world and the blood went out of them. It was not long before no one could tell what had been touched in the first days and
what had not. The light was buried and secret.
But it was not gone. In many things and many people it is still glowing, deep down in their guts, and this, my scraggly, milk-bellied kid, is what magic
The Path of the Numinous-Living and Working with the Creative Muse
Reminds me of the Tulpa thread.
Alluring Fantasty Illustrations of Animal Spirits by Alexandra Khitrova
Why Visionary Art Matters
For Ken Wilber – An Artist’s Spiritual Friend
Stephanie Pui-Mun Law
Beauty Will Save the World
You, God, Who live next door—
If at times, through the long night, I trouble you
with my urgent knocking—
this is why: I hear you breathe so seldom.
I know you’re all alone in that room.
If you should be thirsty, there’s no one
to get you a glass of water.
I wait listening, always. Just give me a sign!
I’m right here.
As it happens, the wall between us
is very thin. Why wouldn’t a cry
from one of us
break it down? It would crumble
it would barely make a sound.
His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.
As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.
Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly--. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.
Do you remember still the falling stars
that like swift horses through the heavens raced
and suddenly leaped across the hurdles
of our wishes--do you recall? And we
did make so many! For there were countless numbers
of stars: each time we looked above we were
astounded by the swiftness of their daring play,
while in our hearts we felt safe and secure
watching these brilliant bodies disintegrate,
knowing somehow we had survived their fall.
The Inspiration Behind Entheon
Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities
“The inferno of the living is not something that will be; if there is one, it is what is already here, the inferno where we live every day, that we form by being together. There are two ways to escape suffering it. The first is easy for many: accept the inferno and become such a part of it that you can no longer see it. The second is risky and demands constant vigilance and apprehension: seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the midst of inferno, are not inferno, then make them endure, give them space.”
'In Raissa, life is not happy. People wring their hands as they walk in the streets, curse the crying children, lean on the railings over the river and press their fists to the temples. In the morning you wake from one bad dream and another begins. At the workbenches where, every moment, you hit your finger with a hammer or prick it with a needle, or over the columns of figures all awry in the ledgers of merchants and bankers, or at the rows of empty glasses on the zinc counters of the wineshops, the bent heads at least conceal the general grim gaze. Inside the houses it is worse, and you do not have to enter to learn this: in the summer the windows resound with quarrels and broken dishes.
And yet, in Raissa, at every moment there is a child in a window who laughs seeing a dog that has jumped on a shed to bite into a piece of polenta dropped by a stonemason who has shouted from the top of the scaffolding, "Darling, let me dip into it," to a young serving maid who holds up a dish of ragout under the pergola, happy to serve it to the umbrella-maker who is celebrating a successful transaction, a white lace parasol bought to display at the races by a great lady in love with an officer who has smiled at her taking the last jump, happy man, and still happier his horse, flying over the obstacles, seeing a francolin flying in the sky, happy bird freed from its cage by a painter happy at having painted it feather by feather, speckled with red and yellow in the illumination of that page in the volume where the philosopher says:
"Also in Raissa, city of sadness, there runs an invisible thread that binds one living being to another for a moment, then unravels, then is stretched again between moving points as it draws new and rapid patterns so that at every second the unhappy city contains a happy city unaware of its own existence." '
Not sure if this counts as visionary art, but it seems like a good place to post it
Whitman, Song of Myself, Part 48:
I have said that the soul is not more than the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud,
And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,
And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the learning of all times,
And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a hero,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd universe,
And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.
And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God,
For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,
(No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and
I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least,
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.
Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,
I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd by God's name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go,
Others will punctually come for ever and ever.
Separate names with a comma.