The Creative Impluse

There is no mastery of the new, therefore no mastery of the flourishing, therefore no mastery of the creative labor, ergo, there is no mastery of the Alive. Such mastery would doom a Shakespeare his fortuitous beauty, or a Tiktaalik her muddy interest, our Last Common Ancestor her blind ambition, or the sun itself this planet speculation. Accidents can be the quickening of insight. The contingent, vague outlines of invention. Vague intuition, the flint & dry grasses that burn away barren understandings. The beauty of others an urge for intimacy which can be the provocation of novel copulations. The desires for what is not known, the fertile egg of our nascent science. Pregnant curiosities, the progenitor of a promiscuous wisdom. Indeterminate dreams & memories the seed bank left by the passing flames. The obscurities of both heart & mind, by an accident of "rain", made to grow out green. Wave their own heady seeds in a sea of wind.

Let penetration & reception be our habits of creation, and press upon these habits the unexpected. Submit them to the rigors of adventure.