These words popped out of an interview between two people on the radio. It resonated: driving, I grabbed a red Sharpie from the glove box and the old spiral notebook I keep for just such instances, and scrawled it down, further endangering other drivers, the ones chatting on their phones.
Arriving home on another day, I remember to grab this scrap of paper torn from the notebook and bring it inside. Putting it on the top of the pile of papers on the desk initiates a reverie:
Is imagination, imagining, a liberation? Is it something possessed? And is its loss akin to being locked up in a cell in Soledad? And what does it mean to once have it and lose it? Mon dieu! Such things to muse about, on the outside world’s Monday morning. While I bide the moments:
Waiting for. enLightenment to arrive with a slamming door and a pine-cone falling on the roof.
Imagining the effect of imagination’s potential for, what, seeing the path that brings us here and now to imagine upon?