i put my hand over my sleeping friend former feral cat jasper hovering without touching. 
his eyes pop and he goes ah! yawns wide.
when i was a kid i was so serious maybe more than today i engaged in deadly serious play. life was intense and death was ever present. you could get hurt bad and it was magical. we found serious wonder under fallen trees with the creatures hidden there. 
i was thinking of that and art, collage or the art of living. you get it from the source. matter speaks to your hands, like animals to your heart. i never found that in class.
i found my feral nature in dead serious play.
this island left alone was like that, with the ghost sheathes and ignoring the nature police, and with the metal mental din of development and subdivision, encroaching. 
the thing we produce that matters is art, this thing nature produces in us, through us. the thing i depended on, early on, the thing they never could confiscate.