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  to Ada verily awing
gary e. davis
April 20, 2016
 


Love school? I think so.

Maybe you’re reading now as cool teen, and couldn’t care less.

But I have to pretend otherwise.

So, long ago you were a girl, and by now maybe you feel highly how loving
another’s life enables their happiness—though probably not in theory.

‘Theory’ (the word, according to Merrian-Webster Unabridged) evolved from
Greek theOrE-a (θεωρια): view, consider, contemplate—born from theOrE-in: behold. (Sometimes I think that etymology is all I need for understanding the nature of things—inasmuch as linguistic relativity holds good, though a mind at heart is beyond a wording.)

Such a theme would have interested Ada Lovelace (mid-19th century), whom—you recall—wanted to spring a “poetical science” from her head. That was years after she, aged 12, wrote and illustrated her “Flyology,” a “guide to self-propelled human flight.”

One does need a guide in these matters. I fly my own tropoconceptual flora.

I trace creative love back to a baby’s intrinsic joy in learning. Awing milestones
build on each other in broadening horizons. One birth echoes in another, with
each other: text, garden, landscape, time. The Inner Child forms itself into an in-satiable namelessness.

But it’s grounded in wholly flourishive life: Make a life you truly love. Do the garden-ing that’s required for thriving, given your loves of life, your life of all the loves,
all facets of being, that truly appeal. Outgrow “pure” heartfulness to make True love, which is complex, in a sense (for artistry) nomadic, as life is manifold, as one is potentially a protean calling, as being always holds more potential for growth,
even for contributing to Our evolving.

To my mind (evolving, I hope), to my psychality, Sophiana channels and mirrors potential for a high artistry of living, indomitable engagement enlightened by researches’ intrepid curiosity, whereas creativity is like a fissional AEros in a crucible of wholly being an art.

Yes, I know I’m excessive. Ana happily mocked my verbosity. I become enthralled with potentials for conceptual bridging, bridging mentalities, domains, eras—renew-ing for the sake of more renewal.

I love Ana with all my heart. I died laughing with her, reducing me to a happy vegetable—which was too much for someone already betrothed. So, I respected her wishes wholly. Seeing her, yet staying distant, felt unbearable because she became part of me. I bolted. I hold her in letters.

About the age that she was when you were born—many years past now—I made a verse assemblage titled As: a history, an outline, which I never shared with anyone! And I hadn’t recalled it for many years—until she caused me to think of it as
my literary rattlebox child; so, I sent a copy to her.

It was born from the best lines of many other young American poets’ mostly-forget-table poems, hundreds of extracted lines, revised into a weave of waves into eerie waters for ready sailing out of my youth, a long tongue-in-cheek variation on
T. S. Eliot’s epithet that “mature poets steal”; or at least promising voices might learn something by seeking to constellate a barrage of snipped lines (after typing each
from the thick tome, The New American Poets, already nearly a decade old by the time I did my trans-condensation), strips spread around my floor for finding
gravities that form themselves into focal belongings like Eros constellating Psyche.
I haven’t seen As since I sent it to her, my wild braid of exit from nomadity.

Yet, that experiment in creativity, generativity, appellant semio-magnetism, whatever, was a far call from high literary theory I happily weathered soon after—years of that—in his odyssey to capture the essence of literary being.

But again, long ago; and everybody’s an allegory of ultimate singularity.

We bring into presence Possibility, as our capability for conceptuality created
the gods, mirroring our imaginability and aspirations.

And it came to pass that the gods transformed themselves into highly discursive formations, aspiring, perhaps, to become wholly scientific arts—or poetical science.

I draw conceptual ecosphericality into wholly enthralled joys, then want to
theorize it.

What is this thing: chalice of mind, jug of mental ecology, urn of Sophial love?

philoSophiana: literary philosophy as tropoconceptual prospecting

Well, “philosophy” is tropal enough, between you and me.

Anyway, Ada, intimacies of inwordness can portend radiant gravities of mind so awing beyond one, it’s like gods channeling and reflecting all potentials of receptive and responsive divining as yours to further genesis.

 

 


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