transcendental beauty

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Those flashes. I know them. They cease to torment and become a source of deep peace once one has dropped the delusion, batted away every impulse to be concerned about whatever one's concerns are, to simply, essentially, be. I remember sitting comfortably in a room with an electrical storm flashing all through it, feeling perfect contentment with a dash of happy wonderment like a light dusting of cinnamon on a bowl of homemade ice cream. That sort of thing tends to alarm the snot out of people. What shoves them into phobias and obsessive compulsive behaviors is letting it worry them, feeling a molten sense of shame for their weirdness, for these vivid demonstrations that they are not like other people. Few are completely comfortable with being innately extremely odd. Einstein seemed to be okay with it. From scratch, if we believe all the accounts of his childhood. I always envied him that.

I remember agonizing over the impossibility of being allowed all the way in to certain circles of friends. They were men. They had GREAT relations. They talked about seriously nontrivial things and produced beautiful music and poetry and art. I wouldn't be allowed all the way in because I was a woman, a babe, a distraction. It hurt me so much. I was so desperately lonely for that kind of company. It was a physical pain, and it came up a lot. Still, it ended up to be a good thing because I ended up bypassing all that, going where, oddly, they began to feel as I had before... only... big surprise... they didn't take it anywhere nearly as gracefully as I had... and it was the worse because I did not exclude them as they had excluded me. Nope. They found themselves excluded because they could not catch this wave.

I was dreaming earlier about some fellow of low character finding something I'd written and being blown away by its beauty. He was gobsmacked by it and pulled my teacher out of the air to try to brag that he was my spiritual friend and this was what came of it. A baldfaced lie in front of two people who knew precisely its dimensions, but also a pretty clear sign these low characters really are mentors for the production of masterpieces. It can be seen both ways.