Today I will chase misplaced bliss, ting the tinge, sit on a clinker, divine all the divine, all the source codes from Michelangelo and steep in awe.

Today, let you and me trample the soldering beliefs, get through the sticky parts and cry a little, in a movie, or on stage, “climb some clouds.”

Who are you to stay put, live inside the paint-by-numbers scene, color inside the lines and cower another hour in the shadows of the safe, in the protection of the ordinary, the known, the “I’ve seen that before.”

Today, extrude brilliance from a journey to Sedona, AZ or trip down the Enchanted Canyon, kiss some cacti and invent, breeze by and wallop a new recipe for living.

This very instance, so your red carpet is laid out, your chance to shine, glean the wisdom, break the rules and walk naked through the dark sipping Belgium sours, ciders or champagne in a coffee cup.

Right now, before the sun comes up and full moon goes down, before the cows come home and the ladies in waiting get really hurried, before the long jump and high jump and 100 meter races all end up buying espressos in the crowded streets of the BolderBOULDER, you have finally found your stride, you exploding passions and new fashions that drip mark perfection, that you let ride camels and elephants and paint another desert Mohave Man.

Who are you to contain fame, to play 21 with sobriety, to harness another ordinary high five as all the Koreans don’t hug, no they do a slow bow, not like the Japanese fast bow, and all the Americans look on in mind cages before the new spring season blasts shows all over the Ethernet.

Who are you to stop, to give it 47%, to roll over and barely play alive in the dialed-in version of Native American truths and the debacle of the Great American Novel who road on the running board through sardine town listening to the sea lions whale, hair blowing in the wind, kissing the edge of Carmel in the stilted streets of Monterey with Johnny Steinbeck before the tourists wrote all over the alley walls and ate all the clam chowder.

Do it. Set it. Be it. Achieve it. Create it. But never leave your music in you, never stop on a dime: Stop on a billion. Become the radical. Throw away all your Jerry Garcia ties, yet listen to Berlin, 1974, a Dead you won’t even believe.

It is time to fly with the angels, comingle with the infinite cosmic drift.

It is time to sing and barn dance and squeal and holler and rant and rave and switch out your costumes and handbags for some kind of a stable job with the haberdasher and lost boys and lost words that have been run over in this information age. Yes, you are in the “information age,” pretty much has killed “the wisdom age,” with slick technologies and chips in your brain so the good wife can find him in that seedy bar near the railroad tracks at sunset drinking with long-legged women and petty the sleeping dogs.

Today go it not alone, but with zip and zeal and zest and a quest to do something stupendous, a 300 move, an anomaly juxtaposed next to the northern shimmering, colored lights over Iceland looking for an orchard, a grove, at least some kind of tree.

Quit thinking about it Don Quixote, windmill man, Sancho Panza. It time to fully awaken, climb those clouds, write scribbled prose on the pier as you see all the way to China, from the shores of Monterey, from the shores of your own imagination.

Do your destiny. Quit thinking about it Johnnie.

As the founder of One Business Connection and author of “The Power of One,” Greg Petri is an acclaimed expert at this, that and the other thing. For more information contact Mr. Petri directly at 303-818-2460.