Never confined strictly to spring, my insurgent libido is an anarchist ever demanding autonomy. Are nature and nurture to be in perpetual guerilla warfare, the one forever sneaking up to push the other over a cliff into the free fall of abandon, the other forever sniping at the one with bullets of moral indignation?

To play host to a civil war between biology and culture suggests a splitting or diversity of what we usually think of as only one, the single self. And I know I’m not alone or crazy in the cellular division of my psyche, despite the fact that modern psychology insists on such concepts as "individuation" in the process of becoming "whole." As if some sort of independence were possible by establishing a separate peace that will pacify my chemistry by an arms buildup in my "sense of self." As if the wild man in me were merely a divergent thought pattern that, through "right thinking," can be brought back to "normalcy." As if…

We are not whole or independent selves, we individuals are the exchange medium of the world as she strives to make more of herself. If there is a whole to be found, a "self" of which to be enlightened, then it is the wild planet herself. Created or evolved or merely ripples in the chaos of eternity, we are the dependent subjects of the wilderness. When gravity speaks, we listen because we have no choice. Where we see order and reason and culture there is really only a veil, thinly draping the thighs of uncontrollable beings. And the veil of culture itself is a product of our imaginations.