They make it so easy these days. With my fingertips I can improve in an infinite number of ways. I can change my skin tone, post a Facebook status; be known. There are potions to help me glisten, meditation apps to help me listen. Perfection was once perspiration, vocation, how to serve the self, the family. Perfection was more recently augmentation, mutation and depreciation of the self. I could go to the doctor and ask them to fragment my jawbone, reshape me like putty. I drag coal across my eyelids and rub berries on my face with sticky palms. Now, of course, we know perfection starts from the inside. I do sun salutations until my spine is plastic, photosynthesize with chlorophyll poptarts , wipe my ass with wheatgrass toilet paper, and meditate on the universes while crunching on organic dirt granules. I guess the idea is that if I put enough things of monetary and spiritual value on me, inside me, I will accrue value too. Today, I took a walk, because I heard on NPR that walking can be good for you, and I saw the most wonderful leaves. Enflamed, uncontrived, and incomparably beautiful. And I thought of Adam and Eve, eating from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, covering their bodies with fig leaves. Did they know how obsessed we would become, how much the material, the brand, the sourcing (so our souls can rest easy) of fig leaves would matter to us…did they know the toll of what the surgical and chemical descendants of those fig leaves would do to our selves, our societies, our world. I don’t know if they did. Exist, I mean. And I don’t know anything about perfection, historically or currently. But what I wouldn’t give to regain what was supposedly lost, not ignorance, but the certainty that there is beauty which exists in nature which cannot be improved upon.