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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 Merriam-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. Playing with her made me to a happy vegetable—
which was pointless because she was already betrothed (and I was old enough to be her father). Seeing her, yet staying distant, felt unbearable because she became
part of me. So, I bolted from our department, retired early (because I could).
I held her afterward in letters.

Anyway, around the age 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.

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