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Fractals unfold, much as does the dynamic creative flow and like a light sailboat in a fresh breeze can deliver us to unexpected destinations.
Each writer depends on his or her source for inspiration, each unique, fractal-like formations so undiscernible can lead us to our next good writing.
It is just that. It begins where it could have ended. No start point, no endpoint. We see it every day and yet we ignore it as though the elephant in our bathtub weren’t there. Why is that? Do we question this? Or perhaps I should ask: should we question this?
Geography matters no more, becoming a thing of the mind.
That sudden onrush of creative burst just goes on and on and like ever forming fractals unfolding before our unwitting eyes. As the man under the tree said, “what has the nature to arise…”
It is in that grain in which sits the wonder, yes grain-sized, thus the aloft hand holding the speck between thumb and index… It is all there. And yet we try to not tell it, or refuse to tell it, or refuse to see it to tell it. Whether we tell it the story gets told, all around, up or down, again the fractals, try telling them how and where to form. Can’t be done.
