There is a way to know when right, is right. It’s when the water flows through the leaves and the air rustles the buildings and the fortunate sun shoots its laser beams of light through the brightness. It’s when nothing makes everything make sense. Then, it is absolutely, unequivocally, critically acclaimed, right. (Those critics know everything!)

It’s also when the deepest of sorrows mix with the crabgrass of entanglement and the knowing shadows comingle with the shards of yesterday’s old mangled gratitude. The artistic blocks begin to recede and the standard observations open a door to the abyss. Or is it the other way around?

Don’t worry, you’ll know it when you see it.

It’ll be straggly and bright, not too, too fabulous, but also darker than the darkest, starless night on earth—under a blanket, covered in lint, with a crevice at the bottom to see out from underneath. It’ll open the door, but close the basement window, so the flies don’t get out. Because, flies are the key to any good amount of right. Right can also look left, so don’t be fooled, because you may never be able to look that way again (your face may freeze that way, if you hold it too long.)

Laughter is key. Until, of course, you don’t laugh, but you sneeze. Then, it’s the blended expression of “just rightness” with the jarring utterance of “never enoughness” that will convince you otherwise. And, you really never know if you are a genius or an anti-genius, because we all are, you know. Isn’t there a saying that goes, “Wherever there is, you are?” or maybe it’s something else.

Why bother to say anything because the amount of breath it takes to speak, can move an open case to close and start a fire with your mind, is that right? You know who you are and why you say what you do and if you know that to be true, then you will believe it and then, say it and then, who cares whether or not someone else hears, gets or understands it, at all?

Explosive exposition can unearth, even the most uncanny ideas or enlighten an ardent connoisseur. Don’t forget your dictionary, when you go in search of right and perhaps you can pack a headlamp, crampons, didactic device, creative license to drive a vehicle over 26,001 lbs. or more and water (don’t forget to drink your water.)

Getting lost is the easiest thing when rightness is the goal and finding anything is easy, too, if you know the security code and you don’t exceed the allotted amount of attempts to measure the weight in ounces instead of grams. Isn’t it enough that we exist? Should any of this be so challenging that we forget the listening or hearing or speaking or understanding or believing—for goodness sake, don’t doubt that believing is an antidote to the viral infestation of the mathematical imaginations of James Joyce or Albert Camus. Did they ever do that?

Blankly staring into the abyss, you might be wondering if the fish heard you, when you dreamed of the motorcycle riding by or the birds laughed at your joke about the frog who majored in [take a deep breath] Philosophical Anticipatory Elemental Oppositionary Integral Art.

Whew.

Surreal Motor Ride by Ivan Aleshin for GI

By the way, the literal meaning of anything is equal to the number in an ostentation of peafowl, because they really, really understand why right, is right. (Somewhere, a peacock raises an eyebrow.)

There can never be enough peacocks, as far as anyone is concerned, in an essay or article unless, of course, you are camping, in which case you will be woken from a dead sleep by an unimaginable screech at which time you will say: “What the hell happened?!” or “Is any of this real?”

The answer to both (and all of the above) is: Yes. Yes, you are wherever you are and no, it is never a good idea to take your peacock in your Airstream. He will be upset, but over time, he’ll recover and be better for it—as will you.