A lifetime of unflinching dedication to routine has perhaps left me mildly toxic. Certainly I am unhesitatingly ambitious for buoyancy. The virulence is my uncompromising intolerance of a shift from originality. This may echo an obsession with currency and the incapacity for change. It is rather a reluctance to dilute nature’s subtle ingredients. Any attempt to unravel the curiosities of nature requires at the outset a delicacy of analysis. By contrast it is every child’s instinctive inclination to take apart the petals of a flower – not just for the romantic preoccupation acquainted with “Loves me, loves me not” but for the hopeless task of revealing the secret. The indiscretion is equivalent to the ruinous habit of pulling the wings off flies or combusting unsuspecting ants on a hot summer day with a magnifying glass. It evokes nothing of profit or utility; and most certainly fails as an artistic endeavour.
Whatever the stimulus the discovery of life and the manipulation of its performance necessitates accommodation. Even the most frightful surrender to status is destined to alteration. Ultimately the manner in which one approaches adaptation is the real secret of life. This may however entail the collapse of all but one’s conviction. Translating experiences from one reality to another is a challenge upon every level of production.
I prefer to regard the process as one of distillation, a metaphor for the thinking and analysis which are the worthy projects of clarifying daily living.
“Distillation is the process of separating the components or substances from a liquid mixture by using selective boiling and condensation. Distillation may result in essentially complete separation (nearly pure components), or it may be a partial separation that increases the concentration of selected components in the mixture.“
Not every occasion implores logic and dissection. Some people and things are manifestly diverting or overwhelming. The superlatives are sometimes beauty; other times brilliance or mechanical purity. Who of each of us hasn’t his or her own particular recollections! Seemingly we are bound until the occurrence of those sustaining moments to trod through or upon the more wasteful or corrupted fields of our unique universe. The unity of our existence mustn’t be permitted to overwhelm the larger and more diverse elements of life. The only commonality to the thesis is our perception, not what it is that we perceive. As such it behooves us to recognize the singularity of people, products and events which momentarily predict – and which may on occasion conflict with – our picture of life.