For Writer’s Island prompt #9 Imagine
Last time I was here, I spoke to the constancy of change and the curves we encounter on each of our journeys. I headed into a big curve on Monday morning and have been riding its edge ever since. I couldn’t have imagined where it would eventually take me, because it brought me full circle and dumped me out tired, but shaking my head, grinning and saying, “Whew, what a ride, and can we do that again? Soon?”
I have to admit, I steer clear of roller coaster rides, and this one mostly took place on paper, but still made me gasp repeatedly and wonder at the level of my own sanity for ever stepping into that little bucket and listening for that click that says that flimsy little lock is actually engaged.
It was a hell of curve, high off my normal ground (I’m terrified of heights), and done at speed (don’t much like speed either, unless I’m in the driver’s seat). Although nominally, I was in the driver’s seat, it all felt a tiny bit out of control (okay, so I’m a control freak, like everyone else, but Julia Cameron aside, I didn’t put on the psychic brakes).
Here’s the image, and did you know that the word imagine is really two words: image, and the suffix -gine, which comes from genium, meaning begetting, and that means that imagine actually means begetting images? Now there’s a hell of an image.
Two words find themselves alone in a dark corner, and decide to tangle amidst lots of touching and feeling, exploring, sweating, grunts and groans. One word walks away satisfied, but the other one starts swelling, gets awkward, can’t settle down because it now has strange hungers and hormonal cravings, almost blows up, and ends up on a metal table, legs spread, contracting and convulsing until it finally pushes out a panoramic.
Sorry about that, got a bit distracted. Where was I? Oh yes, the image. There I was, walking slowly (have to because of age and disability), pretending that my cane is a beautifully hand-carved walking staff, down a sun-dappled country lane with a curve up ahead. I blink my eyes (only once, I swear), and suddenly I’m doing 70 miles an hour, white-knuckling a steering wheel on a six-lane super highway. Oh shit!
The real problem is that I don’t have a clue where I am, let alone what the destination might be. Like the song says, “Just gotta trust imagination (I love Peter Gabriel)”, and that means I have to trust my own intuition as far as knowing I’m in the right lane, headed in the right direction, and will get wherever I’m supposed to be-getting to (there’s that word again).
I wrote a poem. Just that simple. Only it wasn’t. I was doing my normal thing, following the words. How was I supposed to know that this funny little poem was really a panoramic? And let me tell you, those little buggers don’t come easy. But, intuition said, “Go.” And imagination said, “Why the hell not?” So it all got done and I am feeling immensely satisfied.
Sure, there are a few after-birth pangs, a bit of discomfort that will fade quickly, but that’s what happens when one listens to ones intuition and allows imagination to give birth. Take it from a mother of four, grandmother of seven: the sweat, the grunting and groaning, and all the pain are instantly forgotten in the glow of that satisfaction.
The forgetting, and the remembering, are the very reasons that anyone would even consider doing it again, and then again. That holds true for any birth, even the birth of imagination.
Note: Many of you have read the poem mentioned here. I’d like to thank all of those who commented. And for those of you who haven’t read it, but might be interested, it’s located at