There is something in spontaneous being that defies analysis. That analysis, set apart from spontaneous being, searches for cheating rules when, without rules, being one’s self is not the rule, but simply the way. One sells one’s self short attempting to package one’s self into something that fits when fitting is supposed to be the substance. The broad expanse of the self, the contemporality of the self is that most precious elixir of the self we fain would capture if we could without denying its essence.
So much beautiful wild my little
A certain inner peace, quite safe and pleased with herself, wherein there is a certain knowing of the world whereby wherever she alights upon the world that same pleasant fastidiousness whereupon she chuckles with herself she chuckles with her acquaintance wherewith the unknown and uncouth are handily known and tamed: a traveling tea party
Art is a gift, something intricate — oh, stark something.