You cannot depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus. ~ Mark Twain (1835 - 1910)
Drive to work everyday at dawn. No, before dawn. It's always dark when I start the engine, but it will get brighter about 12 kilometers later, when I drop R at the highway rest-area to get his taxi. Then it is just me, and 24 more kilometers of crowded roads, or intersections, or toll booth, or narrow lanes, or busy people getting of the bus. Every kilometer of the way, I imagine things.
Flowers growing in the yard. Magically. Without intervention. Didn't I once spend hours in the yard, planting flower seeds and hoping that they would bloom? Of course they didn't bloom. Those were forget-me-nots who didn't like the harsh sun of Tangerang.
Working in a nice buildings, having my own private office with wide windows overlooking a garden way below.. Didn't I use to work in such a building? It didn't last long, though.
Living in a strange city, where I didn't speak the language. This has partly happened. Would love to experience it again, as an adult. In the strange city, R and I will work down-town (which means we live in the suburb)but we commute to work by train. Like John Grisham, I will write long-hand on my yellowpad during the commute, producing stories after stories. Oh, I will furiously write everyday! Then on weekends, I will type the stories on my computer, at home where flowers bloom in the yard. Where I sit in my home office, facing my big glass windows. Which of course, open into the garden. Yes, I can call the yard a garden in that strange city. Because the yard is full of flowers, you see? And of course, my stories, they get published.
Busy roads, people getting into and off buses, motorcycles criss-crossing narrow lanes. Into an old unkempt building I drive into, where my cramped office is waiting for me. Not to worry, though. By tomorrow morning, I shall visit my home office in the strange country.
No comments:
Post a Comment