One’s many loves gain fruitfulness only by design (and work)—and detail, which is beyond the intent of this project. The months to come are for all that. All sense of some grand cohering in “feeling for our time” is no anticipation of closure, rather Opening, horizons. Diverse cognitive loves entwine with diverse affections or ordinary love exponentiated, as modes of a life may have modes of Love, all lived in a singular Love of one’s life.

Seeking a synergy of loves may seem naïve (proving misguided about loves and cognitive domains?), but you know it’s so appealing to wander through, if only to really understand why The Appeal must wake the dream. Yet, if The Appeal is truly promising, what a promise to understand! What design to live through us.

Anyway, love of poiesis for conceptual gardening can’t bask in any flourishing without doing the work. Conceptuality is architecture for its Kind of homemaking, but for its Kind—kinds of kindreds—a Kindness.

So, let me try a little taxonomical poiesis on love, a conceptual short story. The long story would begin by relishing the “unabridged” lexical version (so nebulous), play through a “handbook” version, then savor others’ vistas. But here is a little story.

All loves can be grouped into a dyad of individuating and relating senses of Love. Friendship, parenting, and moral-romantic senses of love are relational, relating loves. Our presence is relational. Textual intimacy is one of relating. Yet, living textual intimacy is the reader’s, drawing hiermself into a cohering appeal that may transform one. So, the reading may be individuating, too, a radiant gravity and mirror, as well as relating complement. The clear dyad—individuating, relating—may dissolve into mere heuristic as resonant presencing. A romance anews a heart (individuating Self), though it’s also relating: really you and me, yet “me” (to you) and “you.” A mirrorplay in elation relatingly enriches each, yet also individuates the relating unto itself: “We” grows, as each grows the other. Yet, there is the difference: enriching relating, individuating relationship.

Literary love (an individuating relationship) has an intimacy that may elude so much of love portrayed in fiction (love in Literature that is primarily relational). Erotic intimacy may embody a synergy unknown to “sexual love.” (Sexuality at best expresses relational love, but there’s more to erotic intimacy between us than sexual expression and shared satisfaction in the occasion.) Mental intimacy may embody a scale of merger unknown to many romances. Academic enhantment (you have to be there) may draw us into a vision of our being that becomes us, instancing an evolving humanity, like some Ulysses resurrecting lost time of history anewed in one more story (Edenic archetype—now shamelessly modern?).

Singularities, embodied minds, may exemplify how many kinds of Love in a possibly-singular humanity? Beyond all idiosyncrasy in embodying our evolving nature in history, how Singular can a voice become?

I’m drawn into The Book of romantic, intimate, erotic, literary, intellectual, self formative, and historical possibility whose boundaries are just one’s ability—my ability? our? your? somewhere—to comprehend, given time.

I will never have that Intimacy, I know; but an idea of being in time appealing there is the radiant gravity of my belonging—so little shown perhaps in what I can do. Yet, high fidelity to so enkindering, such intergenric vining, going godknows where, wholly possesses me. So, I give ‘intimacy’ to it all and avow an horizonal Love for such Intimacy.

In aspiring light of it all, I would at times misstep by giving some times more importance than they deserved (or played too presumptively), yet gaining there importances from the inspiration (or the misstepping improvisations). Being carried away, I do win much carried away from elating reflections—and sometimes also gain a deepening of interSelfal bonds, an enrichment of a highland, a depth of giving.

I have known them: “What made life lastingly joyous and beautiful was always us, and that’s for no one else to know.”

Well, maybe others came to know them displaced into characters of a fiction (given creative subterfuge: “It was merely a fiction,” they insisted.)

For us, any one or two, life makes the stuff of fiction weaving something singular from all the Flow. We may make a singularity of our mirrorplaying selves, as if becoming an interSelf that’s boundless—though here, writing, it’s so much text (as if not always merely that). But what else can last? Our minds die with us.

We love our solitude. We love conceptual adventuring, seeking horizons of developing, evolving intelligibility. We wholly love our eros of mind (and creative transgressions that enrich). We want to know our ultimacy.

I’m drawn into the horizon there, and you’re what’s reflected here. Maybe, you’re the entire library, and I’m the writing of you in such finite light of that, an embodied belonging of here and there. I want the whole discourse, a poiesis of our time born of phenomenal, liminal, intermodal, intergenric, interSelfal, numinal, and auratic resonance, some epochal eros of the Intimacy.

I can do it.

Next: finding happiness in flourishing.