(I am exploring what I might mean when I call what I write imaginings.)
Two images, an open door and a closed one, appear in my mind as if they were on the paper before me, as if my imagination and the world outside of it were one and the same.
The blank sheet of sketch paper on the desk hasn’t moved. I’ve been writing on pages without lines for an unknown number of years for reasons that thought has yet to communicate to me.
I picture a short, robust man whom I’ve chatted with recently at the grocery store, less than a mile from where I’m writing this sentence, about the bathroom in his home that he’s remodeling. “I’m in a hurry,” he says as he runs into a room that he realizes he doesn’t recognize. “Where am I?” he asks me, as if I could open the door that has closed behind him.
These images unsettle me. I don’t want to imagine such a situation. I remind myself where I am, in my mind, an observer as I write. Then I realize that I’m trying to forget about the images of the short, robust man, who told me once that he works as the store manager six days a week. Doors open and close in my mind while I write seven days a week. What else am I going to do?