We imagine each other. And in so doing, we assign each other characteristics, assumptions, and motives of our own. The love and hate we feel for each other, the inspiration and beauty, the pride, the boredom, the annoyance, the disappointment, the confusion, we really feel in and for ourselves — which we have also imagined.
This is only a suggestion, offered as a possibility. I suggest and offer it to myself. It seems to make sense, but much can happen in the distance between logic and truth; whole lives can be lived in that realm, without ever reaching or touching one or the other or both.
A couple of days ago, a little girl who lives up the street stopped by to tell me that the manure I was spreading in the garden really stinks. Then she stood and watched for several minutes. “Where did it come from?” she wanted to know. I told her it came from cows. “You mean that’s cow poop? Ew.” “If you don’t like it,” I said with a smile, “then why are you standing there?” She thought about this, then said, “Maybe it isn’t so bad.” Less than a minute later, she changed her mind and went home.
Well. I would rather smell manure than fast food, or hair spray, or perfumed shampoos and soaps. Maybe that will help you imagine me. Maybe it won’t.
October 11, 2021
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Awareness, Chance Meetings, Diaries, Gardening, Identity, Imagination, Journals, Manure, Perception