Nothing can be done except a little at a time. This Baudelaire quote has been one of my mantras, one of my steady running mates since as long as I can remember.
The world runs on inspiration. Warm fevers, lightning sieges, happy contagions, shared fates, fool’s moons and their little dogs yipping.
The world, in its base molecular structure, is inspiration manifest. A three and four D show in a mutable multiplex. Ah, there you are. You, the movie. You, the screen. You, the projector. You the film-reel that burns in the sun and twists into origami refuse. So beautiful, so beautiful.
Imagination runs amok, because it wants to catch you with your pants down. Your head in the clouds. Your ground in your feet shuffling sideways to a neverending beat. Stagnation signals death. Inspiration makes guests and hostesses of us all.
We are cheerleaders for our own spirit-being. For the being-ness of others. Pom-poms are our birthright. Inspiration turns us into favored fools.
Kiss the back of your hand, and rest assured that the universe wants to make out with you under the bleachers some Sunday afternoon, or in the shadows of an attic where your dreams turn over nightly.
