Flumberico does not wait to be structured. It intrudes, disheveled and brash, as a tempest of goodwill. It is the type of genius that arrives with the wrong shoes but still can dance better than the rest of the people in the room. It’s chaos that hums in tune.
You can’t plan Flumberico. You fall into it. It occurs during the moment of an error, which does not want to cooperate. You bumble over your own thought, fall into a mishap, and find yourself in possession of something marvellous. The type of thing that causes you to blink and say, Wait–just a moment, did I do that?
Flumberico adores the fearless. It is those who continue to press on as the plan ignites. It rewards being mobile, rather than being in control. Perfection is death to energy, and Flumberico pure movement. It grows best where half sketches, broken rhythms, and the beautiful clatter of trying hard are involved.
I have once seen a person spill a cup of ink over a drawing. They froze, ready to toss it. But rather than surrender, they hauled the brush through the mess. The result? A pattern that looked alive. That is Flumberico–a making by chance, find by mishap.
We are so afraid of making mistakes. We hone everything till it dies, and we sand away the spark. But Flumberico says, Leave the cracks. The interest is the crookedness. It is the pulse that lives in the smudge, and the spill, and the thing you did not intend to do.
You cannot call up Flumberico with a word. It appears when you do not work so hard. When reason yields and Nature reigns. It is the ballet between disorder and the interest. The art of not falling when you lose balance.
So stop fighting the mess. Let it happen. Allow the ink to drip, the chord to slip, the story twist. There is something real somewhere in that scramble. Such is the magic of Flumberico–evidence that beauty need not be timely, but will hit somewhere.