My egoist anarchy begins to look like — anarcho-rusticism (ha!). What this means to you makes no real difference to me, unless I care. Regardless. I’m not in charge of your visions, your meanings, your musings.
My anarcho-rusticism has nothing to do with a doctrine, cannot be a blueprint. I’ve not drawn it out. I have no grand plan; even for myself.
I’ve not drawn it out, because ‘it’ is no-thing and I’ve not lived it out yet. I’m writing these words out, after all!
Anarcho-rusticism is simply a couple of notions brought forth; an instance of poesis cobbling themselves together one day of their own accord – image(s) and meaning(s)–pointing toward a description. A surrealist opening of and toward the Marvelous.
The Marvelous: neither ‘thing’ nor state-of-being. But a play where player and played are neither remain figure nor ground; inseparable in the playing.