In early January, 1981, feeling-being ‘Richard’ had ‘his’ first memorable experience of being naiveté—the nearest a ‘self’ can get to innocence whilst remaining a ‘self’—and ‘he’ was particularly struck by the experiential fact of finally being likeable (albeit a likeable persona mind you), and, thusly, a liker of ‘his’ fellow human beings also as they too were (potentially) likeable as well.

Almost needless is it to point out how a persona who cannot unreservedly like themselves—even at the deepest core of their very ‘being’—cannot unconditionally like any other persona either (all of whom are, likewise, ‘rotten to the core’ as well)?

It was a particularly summery summer’s day and ‘he’ had been wet-mixing the clay ‘he’ had dug out of the ground, at select sites near-by, in a two-metre wide and one-metre deep pit which ‘he’ had lined with paling-fence type boards—situated just outside his pottery studio at the ex-farmhouse property where ‘he’ was living and working at the time—in a process somewhat similar to treading grapes in the traditional manner. The shovelful-sized clods of clay had been soaking in this pit, topped-up with water via a hose from the nearby windmill from time-to-time, for more than two weeks and was deemed ripe for stomping into a thoroughly mixed and buttery smooth consistency. And ‘he’ had been joined in this clay-pit by a young lad who, aspiring to be a potter himself, came to the studio for a few hours on an almost daily basis to practice his craft and “study under the master-potter”, so to speak, and make something worthy out of his previously dissolute life.

The ‘being naiveté’ experience occurred as feeling-being ‘Richard’ was climbing out of the clay-pit, onto the closely-cropped grass surround, so as to converse with ‘his’ then-wife and mother of their four children and the young apprentice’s wife (she was the lass who had introduced the term jamais-vu into ‘his’ vocabulary and compared notes pertaining to same from time-to-time), who, attracted by all the shouts of merriment as the clay was being stomped as per the time-honoured treading-the-grapes tradition, had wandered out from the pottery studio’s office-cum-gallery to partake of all the fun and frivolity.

And it was as ‘he’ was clambering out onto the grassy sward—both ‘he’ and the young lad were stark naked and covered in creamy wet clay—that ‘his’ heightened state of awareness (a state of amazement, marvelment, and delightment, due to the exuberant joy stemming from making a living as an adult playing with mud and the sheer joie de vivre of life itself) slipped into being a childlike state of wide-eyed wonderment best expressed by the word naiveté.

And as ‘he’ stood there, delightedly extolling the virtues of being naiveté itself, ‘he’ enthusiastically encouraged ‘his’ rapt audience to reach down inside of themselves intuitively (a.k.a. feeling it out) going past the rather superficial emotions and/or feelings (generally in the chest area) into the deeper, more profound passions and/or feelings (generally in the solar plexus area) until they came to a place (generally about four-finger widths below the navel) where they intuitively feel they elementarily have existence as a feeling being (as in ‘me’, at the core of ‘my’ being, which is ‘being’ itself), and, having located ‘being’ itself, gently and tenderly sense out the area immediately below that (just above and/or just before and almost touching on the sex centre) where they would find themselves both likeable and liking (for here lies sincerity and/or naiveté) and here is where they can, finally, like themself (very important) no matter what, for here is the nearest a ‘self’ can get to innocence whilst remaining a ‘self’, and, moreover, here lies tenderness and/or sweetness and togetherness and/or closeness because here is where it is possible to be the key which unlocks the potency of naiveté.

And as ‘he’ continued standing there on the greensward, extolling the virtues of being naiveté itself, ‘he’ realised ‘he’ had just dedicated ‘his’ life to the priceless pursuit of innocence itself—of becoming the manifestation of this innocence here on earth, of being the personification of innocence in this lifetime—and, thence, to extolling the virtues of the giving of ‘himself’ to this worthy cause, in a way which ‘his’ previous dedication to art and artistry (‘he’ had lived it, breathed it, been consumed by it, twenty-four-seven) couldn’t even begin to compete, as nothing, but nothing, could ever be as worthy of devoting one’s life to as the pristine perfection and peerless purity presently unfolding all about.

For out of nowhere and everywhere—the overarching benignity and benevolence inherent to the infinitude, which this infinite and eternal and perpetual universe actually is, had by now been operating more and more freely—came a magically scintillating wonderland, dynamically enveloping all and sundry in its sparkling embrace, and ‘he’ vanished unto oblivion in the twinkling of an eye (i.e., ‘he’ went into abeyance for the duration, ‘he’ realised later, after the event).

And thusly did ‘he’ enable this flesh-and-body to be here today (April 2024), as pure intent personified, tapping out with two-fingers this rather quaint clay-pit tale of long-ago times.