Day 5

Though more photos will follow, it seems follow moreso that words will be introductory. In a frustrating read of Julian of Norwich--due to the inability to appreciate her true motherly and emotional perspectives of Christ--I read "I it am that thou lovest."

Truly what we love is what we love, inside of us we love what we love, and we love others because of their otherness by seeing what we love in them.

And to see this in unexpected and breathing ways I would also like to suggest a reading of The Road by Cormac McCarthy.

Due to the other of this: 'I wrapped it in an essay I wrote about it'

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Today i was eating a meal in a booth, a booth for four, but i was the only one there. On this day someone came and sat down in the booth across from me and when i say the booth across from me i don't mean in my booth facing me, i mean one booth over, facing me. It isn't an uncommon thing to witness or commit and i'd never really given it much thought but i was in a particularly ponderous mood and
The empty seat. The one i had before me. Was also right in front of him.
What was evident, clear! was that

we were inextricably seperated by the option of company.

Today i watched a video about Andy Goldsworthy in which he spent many hours working on a piece of art, made of natural, found materials, outdoors, in the winter, which is magnificent in it's own right. It was a precarious and intricate structure of twigs held together by thorns, it hung like a spiders web between the branch and trunk of a tree, spanning eight feet. He pushed it to the greatest limit of structural independence by continuing to build where some may have erred on caution, it caught the wind and began falling towards him but he caught it with his right hand. It was clearly moribund, something vital to it's structural integrity had been inexplicably damaged but in limbo it held a vestigial beauty sustained only by his intervention. He had it there, held, for as long as he wished in the palm of his hand, for as long as he wished. With a gentle, deliberate grace he let it go and sat down with furrowed brow, surrounded by the debris of his creation. He said,

i am so amazed at times that i am actually alive

i reflected on it and was pleased!
he was amazed that he was alive, he was alive because he was amazed.

Several days ago i had a conversation with my Professor Sally Green about creative writing. She asked, are you a writer? i said, i have in the past, but not currently, i write a lot of essays, but that's different. She told me that essay writing is creative writing. Of course it is! i don't know how i could have overlooked that,

The creative act pervades everything

As i had been trying to reconcile my creative life with my academic one i forgot to see how the two were intrinsically interconnected. Are mathematics infused with creativity?
How could they not be?