Judging which will Grow & What won’t is a true Magic Spell

A Breakthrough Comes Out Of No Surprise If You Sow a Seed Well; Learning Through The Chances— Morning Papers XXIV

Take these Two Images: A Spellbound Crafter and a Gleaner of Wheat and Farrows; Both graffers of a certain ask —But how to measure the happenstance that brings Fruition?

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Ah! — The Return of the Gleaner; Such are my ties to the paintings throughout and within the tasty chase of time.

For days on end now with its unfolding nights, is Minnie the Moocher; will I again be asking for death’s merciful release from such repeats? In this case, that is highly unlikely. What a true tune, hi-de-hi-de-ho, what a bold thing —such is the splendor of spending your finite currency of time well!

You could always steer me away, my dear old friend. Me and my box of tricks and stories, the wise would only eschew my brilliance kept away, in all its shortcomings and tendency to veer off course; little can know therein belies the magic, by the fortune of brilliance mistakes in course of this all.

But hush-hush, that is our little secret, our little shared piece of hotspur in a world that is ever contorting in and around our sights.

If I stare at a certain tome that is lying on my right side, on a little sofa, awaiting for its cover to be peeled back and the page bookmarked to be returned to, what might it entail for me a moment just after that visitation; what minor or major thought might it espouse? Might it reoccur in my memory when I least expect it?

If the happenstance be that, and if the occurrence be so chanced upon, unlike the fabled Gleaner which portrays this story to the outside audience, isn’t it a mode or rather a daring try to furnish oneself with the seemingly impossible?

Take this here for something to understand, imagine me conjuring up a few notes on the Piano, mild and compared to what this may transpire into, meek.

Now this spellbound crafter dares themselves each and every time when their clasping hands unfurl themselves and each individual digit falls onto their remembered positions, and they noodle and noodle;

in my case, a slow fizzling inside occurs, and the hope — Oh the hope for the happy happenstance of something new, mostly being led on by pieces beloved and old, being conjured from the subtle notation and slowly, sometimes speedily coming into fruition.

Now take this, a remember those few good notes, if I was lucky, then a few good chords and a decent pack of bars, all enchanting to enfold me, and so I go. Perhaps forget about the idea for a period, or if I’m in that certain mood, I start hammering away in my forge of song and heart-to-hearth.

Slowly, I add a little bit of this and then I swirl around in my swirly chair, face my face in my glass rotating wing, tickle the underside of my hand on my console, flip, tumble, and twirl all in the single instance of remaining, seemingly, completely still, and then I turn myself around, staring at the mangled assortment I hope to procure something worthwhile from, in this happenstance, it is utterly uncertain, the reward perhaps is greater in terms of soul-fulfilling accords.

And if I was a greater imbiber of the avarice spirit, many dollars bills, especially if the song worms itself into the beholden chant of the brain in relation to their sonar devices known as ears. Becoming the unholy chorus of endless ball games, hi-de-ho!

That is the chance of this certain moment of creative possibilities, it is frail and fragile, why also the rung of importance for certain albums and feats in the musical theater is measured in this stance.

That blending and wielding mesh of these terrific things, if the artist has done their task well, was seeded a long time ago, in hope — oh Art, you are the temptation like hope, it is hard to resist.

Now take this image of the aforementioned Gleaner to juxtapose all these tantalizingly particular imagery. I’m never one for conclusions, that is on your behalf, dear reader, oh have that Felicity, have it on me! Don’t say I never let you work for things…

I mentioned the farrows, and there it is our second position. Alongside the cropped place, the land is sculpted by a snaking river, between the two is a tall covering of washed-out grasses. On the farrow there is a Woman, cultivating the land, preparing what she must for the seasonal cycle of her life in such an instance.

Relying on the seemingly unchangeable, using this foreknowledge to sow the harvest, of golden oats and chaff for the bovine feast. It is simple and the rewards may also seem simple comparatively, but essential. No one needs a song to dance to, unlike a belly filled with a hot bowl of oatmeal.

Now the soul may call folly on that conclusion, but that is the weight of perceiving the importance of things on this Ladder ideal. I’m not fully convinced by this method, for in a certain moment, a song will fill you in that queer itchiness deep within that no bowl of cereal could fill. So there it is the complex and daring uncertainty and this more simply termed station. I shall let you draw the conclusions and questions further, I know a certain one of you loves to ask Why, so please quiz it, you!

Ta-ta Now, however Brief and however fruitful the years ahead be for you, dear wayfarer, may it be dared to have been; and yes, I am aching over the fact of the form I have constructed here, understanding completely I have underexposed things here… Ah, another day, another day Doctor, let it go. Ta-ta.

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