When we were kids, I was comforted by the fantasy of understanding, the idea that two people could stare out into space, confident that it didn’t matter where they were going in their mind’s eye or that their vantage points were side by side, across a table or atop the other, never precisely aligned. What mattered was that however far the gaze or for however long it should cross, merge or diverge in flurries, there was this sense that the somehow parallel happening of it all was something.
On character Robert Watts, “Imaginary limits placed on nature and the freedom it provided,” ...Let not imaginary limitations on freedom be more vivid than imaginary freedom itself, nor more poetic than freedom’s imagination, nor more tragic. And on “the endless arguing for human dignity… just another form of servitude,” ...Let us serve well, in mindful and heartfilled gratitude.
I’ve marveled and shuddered at brilliant minds that are like random over sogged fact doused sponges and others like specialty magnets attracting and repelling knowledge at will and others like collectors of mysterious mental manageries and still, I can only imagine the glory of organizing and the torment of compartmentalizing extraordinary intellect.
I can’t imagine what it would be like to let loose and get so far into character and the construction of elaborate alternate voices that they could actually speak for me, where I wouldn’t feel condemned to sift through the rubble of earthen cognizance and venture to assemble and actually stand naked in claim of my take on or of an abstract thought.
And I am mesmerized by how an imaginary person in a story can be comprised of a unique combination of elements of the author’s personal experience and observations, beveled in a meta-schizophrenic type life force of a divine x factor that allows the reader to become lost in the characters words like breaths of the holy spirit, while the writer lay safely behind his puppet master’s curtain, as the show lives on beyond him, particularly when the character lives in the miraculous womby mesh of historical references and a fantastical presence, making for more magical references of future authors and their puppets.
Notice how where two distinct characters and voices of different ages converge, there is a Main street in every story town, not entirely different from a “state” of mind.
Long live the fantasy of understanding!
Thanks, grazie, gracias, dhanyavaad, merci...xoxoxo