I’m on a treadmill – the working one next to the broken one, in the small complex gym. A plastic garden chair, gray, sits in view behind a pool that seems painted on the ground, or like a sticker pressed onto a Colorform book. Also, forbidden. The sun is bright today.
As legs move, attention begins to lean back. Layers of impressions synchronizing… acclimating… all is restful, okay. I go somewhere, which I see only in retrospect when fragments begin to stir for attention like a thousand eyes, feelers darting about, seeking another point of concentration. So that my legs keep going. So I don’t think about them. So I can stay a while longer.
“I guess we are it!” is what I think to the chair, projecting attention as if swooping over to someone approachable at a party. Am I really asking permission of this object, to do an exercise with me? Why not.
Attentions are split, some resting as if (with?) the chair and some staying as if (with?) the me. A million years pass, tumbleweeds roll by, before I wonder if it is okay to be so vague.
It is not distance, not floating from above or disappearing ‘me’ again. We’re grounding each other? I feel the posture of the chair and my own changes. I’m startled to see that I usually think of imagination as something I do, but what pops up by surprise, or flows up on its own, as something quite different. Something slightly other, that I allow from some ‘obvious’ center.
A choice to make… whether to stay in the connection with the chair, which feels like ‘charging energy’, or to write down the thoughts, which do after all seem friendly, not intrusive, as though they can coexist and be trusted in our (yes mine and the chair’s) restful, grounded, space.
I can reach for my phone to take notes, but even if I trust the percolating up of little gentle creative affirming thoughts, can I trust the phone, or my quieted habits, not to flare up through the phone… can I let them be part of the collaboration? Probably not, but I risk it… even all this calculating doesn’t hasn’t broken the bond in any way, yet…
I fear to say that I know anything… as though what I’m aware of not knowing cancels out anything known… or as though the second I know, the door will close. ‘Timing’ is synchronicity, beginning-less and endless happening… doesn’t need an origin. Like the ‘imagination’ I was thinking of as mine.
How is that comforting? But it is.
What is Reality? An icicle forming in fire.