Imagination

I'm reading a real paper and ink book. It's a collection of essays by Ursula K. Le Guin. Essays by one of the great science fiction (or just plain fiction) writers of our time. She is writing about her perspectives and life. It's a joy to read them.

The first one made me think of my own use of my imagination. Seriously, I take in a lot of information which does a lot for my curiosity. But my imagination (except for the anxious part) is under-exercised.

I spend far too much time in this world. The world of facts, data, and speculation. Speculation is a kind of imagination but it isn't the kind I feel separated from. No, speculation is all about how the world will turn out on certain trajectories. It doesn't do much for me except make me want to close the door and turn the lights low.

I miss writing fiction and painting from my mind's eye. It doesn't come easily. And that is because I'm certain my imagination is underfed and under exercised.

I think I'll play with it a little right now.

Liebchen, my dog, grew a pair of dragonfly wings this morning. I woke up to find her on my chest on the bed where she doesn't belong. I told her to jump down but instead she started to buzz loudly lifted off me and hovered in place. Her legs paddled in the air frantically until she plopped back onto me. The wings folded against her flank, originating near the joint where her front legs attach to her body.

The wings explained how she got up there. But they didn't explain her being out of her kennel. That was answered when MoMo jumped on the bed and started patting my face with a big beefy hand. He wanted to be fed.

I just rolled over. If he could open the dog's kennel, he could feed himself and the other cats.

This people is my imagination. I imagine a world where the cats feed themselves.