Jul. 15th, 2010

While trimming archived directories, I found this piece from about two years ago, which I had intended to expand to a full entry. But I think it stands on its own.

What life can I find inside myself?

There are plants, at least. There are flowers and weeds: I know because they bloom occasionally. There are trees: some of the ideas have been growing a long time, their roots burrowing deep into my past. There's fungus: I can tell by the timely decay and recycling of ideas that are rejected and dead. But there isn't much in the way of fauna. There's so little, in fact, that when something mammalian appears (from some undefined outside) it does so with the force of revelation, giving me an idea that could be the basis of an entire academic or creative career, if only it would stay (rather than just leaving tracks or remembered glimpses).

Thoreau said, "With thinking we may be beside oneself in a sane sense." I extend that by claiming: with imagination we may be inside ourselves in a sane sense.

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lhexa

January 2012

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