Found myself at the counter with folks I would have run around with years ago. I become passionate and excited to talk about art and to slowly integrate the artist in myself that I so often deny. Words, phrases, thoughts, flung around about consistency in writing, Foucoult, science- fiction, research in science, change. I was excited to talk about this lofty stuff, the result of years in an institution with its own agenda. It all came back to what I care about—people. We are not separate. I am you and you are me and we are the same atoms spinning around. We all have a flow, our dharma, those things we care deeply for and I watch this fall as the earth is in its own passionate stage, changing the color of trees like tye-dye, bushes lit on fire like in a bible story—red and orange and alive. Branches jutting into the sky curling and winding ready for winter naked with brown bark while the rest of us bundle up in our leaves that grow in the cold opposite the trees—coats of fur and down keeping in our energy. Energy is never created or destroyed just like ideas, just like love. These conversations I have with others are not new, this is not the first time I have been here and nostalgia takes another form of energy transferred as we all recall other times and spaces when we in other forms. And as I watch the earth’s autumn art I begin to integrate the artist in myself, the person that scares me with intensity. Strangely affected by others and the passion, the intensity, is shared amongst us all.