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  confessing a lovely integrity
gary e. davis
January 13, 2022
“I’m going to love my writerly solitude,” I noted at the home page, mid-December.

I did. I do. It’s gravitational time travel.

It’s spring again: “I wonder in wandering,” I wrote, way back. “Happy solitude
may channel enchantments of the Inner Child as conceptual appeals of the outer world, an embodied sublime mirroring idealized inwardness, maybe leading to
a generative sense of Worldness altogether.”

But for love of writing “... as if a mind destines itself for solitude and distant inti-macies through inwordness,” (ΒΆ16 of March 2011), I’ve lost loved ones as if
by adultery.

Authentic love of creative life is a theater of balance: a Janus-faced fidelity to you and Self—interSelfal intimacy, intraSelfal free play—evident through discernible selves (selfidentities) by way of interpersonal days.

“I’m not a contemplative,” I wrote a decade ago, “though I adore comtemplative solitude—along with adoring friendship, little boats of nigiri sushi, and grand vistas” (December 2011).

But “artistic pathmaking may be essentially perverse to practical life,” endowing protean enthrall only to a muse.

And free play of our tranquil resorts, even during pandemia.

Love, I wasn’t being exclusive—though we were, happily (for the while).

“Creative efficacy,” you said to aliened “friends.”

Immersive engagement born of intrinsic curiosity scaled up, out, in, and here by rapt savoring, reveries, flows, and joys of wayfaring endlessly.



  Be fair. © 2022, gary e. davis