All is equal in the eyes of the Curious-Authentic Artist.
The biscuit is equal to the banquet.
The mountain is equal to the ditch.
The storm? It is equal to the limpid pool; and that slant of sunshine bouncing off a clean spot on a rusty bicycle is equal to a melting snowman in the garden of a dying librarian.
Different than does not mean less than.
The burnt crust is equal to the moist cake, thick with chocolate frosting.
The shoe is equal to the trouser.
We need them both, though some have neither.
We need them too.
The newborn and the octogenarian with a broken toe are commensurate.
Your laughter rising from a tiny point in the depths of your intestine is equal to the tears you shed when the cat died.
Draba is equal to rose.
The pothole at the end of the street that could house a giant pike is as valuable as a fleet of Mercedes sparkling in the lot.
For the solution to be found the question must present.
The discarded ring pull is equal to the beer.
The refugee fleeing from war, is equal to the star hiding from the tabloid hack.
The spanner collector’s unending monologue is as useful to the writer as a professor’s lecture on Kafka, though more tiring.
I heard of a woman who paints chillies incessantly, her house is filled with these canvases. There is a man who feels his car more important than his wife, though, when queried, is quick to deny it. Some people like jam, others like Marmite, still others eschew all pleasures in their personal quests for redemption.
The Curious-Authentic Artist will travel with them all, grateful for the material.