There is beauty in this world that hides behind and beneath the worn stone edifices that people don’t see, and which they ignore as they pass between point A and point B pursuing some menial little task of their daily life. Like a dandelion growing in the crack in my street in the summer, or a wild flower that creeps along the grimy concrete of a house wall, or an idea that light up a worn old face.

Maybe that idea is a memory, or a plan, or a course of action, but the force of the idea transforms the humdrum of routine into an adventure. It is not a force that can be reduced to the mathematics of atoms and molecules, and it can’t be measured by instruments or gauges. But it has power, that idea, that beauty, and it can propel the little bit of the world that one person inhabit forward to something new. And who knows, maybe the force is strong enough that it causes ripples in several, in many, in innumerable lives as it moves through that aether of the meme-space that exist between minds?

The weather is miserable as usual, and everyone is panicking again. The end is nigh. People huddle. The skies are laden, and the rain pours down. The schnick-schnick of the wind-shield wipers toss the water aside to allow us to view the world from the cold cocoon of the car – blurry and distorted as that view out may be – when we return from the hotel where my dad live.

And there, across the road, in a bus cubicle an old woman huddles to keep dry, light by the dark grey evening-light and the street lamp nearby. The normal neutral face turns toward the distance, the eyes get lost in the horizon, and this smile spread across the face as some internal fire is ignited and push out through the skin and bone and muscle. An idea appear to be born. An idea that when the bus comes, makes the old woman’s step springy and bouncy as she hurry up on the old bus.

To where? I do not know. To what? I don’t care. I just know that smile, that lost gaze, that sudden aura around her means she has an idea, and that idea is a force that maybe starts already with the bus driver that might feel a little better seeing the radiance of the woman.

There is ugliness in the world that hides or crushes the dandelion in my street in the summer, and which sweep away the wild flower creeping along the grimy concrete of the wall. That ugliness also makes the idea falter, the force dissipate, the aura of ambition dim back to the neutral humdrum face of the daily grind. The ugliness make the power of the idea, the thought shrink to the point where a “It’ll never work, don’t be silly” win out in the battle between the beauty and the negativity beast.

I want the beauty. I want the idea. I want the adventure. I don’t know what the woman thought, or what her apparent idea was about, but I want her to do it. I want to do this paper. I want to see it through. I want the beauty of the execution, and the ripple of force that light up people.

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