Umbrellas Unopent in Tempests, Part XXIV

Itwethey sits staring out a window and up through a dense thicket, onto a bright blue sky, some cliffs, and above the ridge of the cliffs, sun bursting. It’s an intricate interlacing of light and dark, bright and gloom. The forest is downright gloomy, and it always is. It’s cool, and it always is (except when it is frigid.) It is within this ambiguous and delicately vague obscuring of lines between luminous and obscure, scientifically clarified and artistically chiaroscuro, Itwethey opens his “openness.”

Itwethey’s interpretation of “openness” is as a “bidding of welcome.” It is a generosity, a form of hospitality, and (this will require unpacking, “conversation.”) Some kind of warmth…Some kind of welcoming (rather than engulfing, dominating, or addicting) passion…

Itwethey’s “openness” is struggling to emerge against “openness” Itwethey finds to be without warmth; a solipsistic, and even narcissistic “openness”, somehow lacking sincerity—superficial.

Itwethey’s opening gambit is that these unappealing qualities of “openness” may be unlocked by looking at the way this “openness” will or will not embrace what its own metaphors of openness entail, infer, or imply. Sun bursting above ridge, dripping gold down a hillside, gold molten gobbing into living moist darkness, nourishing the darkness, never dispelling it.