
I love the sunshine today.
Now for a parable...
Imaginary Reader came to me last night and said, "Why do you update so much? Are you that narcissistic? Do you think we are checking three times a day, unable to sleep, to eat, without a word from you?"
"Gentle Imaginary Reader," I said, "Come, have a seat. I will make you a dill pickle martini and tell you a story." So Imaginary Reader sat, I stoked the fire, garnished a murky martini with a garlicky spear, and began to spin my tale.
***
I spend most of my days with small people, children, actually, who are creative and entertaining and yet who cannot endure the weight of all of my thoughts and knowledge. Many times throughout the day stories come to my mind, stories sometimes involving swear words and morally questionable actions on my part. Or an esoteric interest reveals itself, and while my mouth is speaking of why we must revise our personal narrative stories, my brain is reeling with questions about the Stone Forest, about the aesthetics of rain, and trying to remember that guy's name who built the amazing houses for the poor in the south (his name is Samuel Mockbee, and he's pictured above. Oh, did you think that was Imaginary Reader? I guess he could be). Sometimes, Imaginary Reader, these mental diversions threaten to spill over, and I find myself trying to compensate in some bizarre way. For example, when confronted with the mysterious menu item "Traveling Taco," I drew on the board a very detailed taco with suitcase, traveling hat, legs and shoes, and an excited grin. I was enthusiastic about this project, until one of my students broke through my creative process and said, "Why are you spending so much time on that taco?" My defenses flared. Because I want to! Because I need to! Because I am a creative and interesting person who needs an outlet at times! I yearn to travel, like this taco; to draw, like you kids are doing now with your persuasive travel posters; to write my own scandalous personal narrative. But no. I'm with you children, here, where I must contain these impulses and guide you toward your creative zenith while I choke on my own!
That's when I thought it might be a good idea to start writing again, in whatever capacity. I don't expect you, Imaginary Reader, or anyone to read these words, or to care. But I must press on for my own sanity. I hope you understand now. It's not a personality disorder but a creative imperative that leads me to tell my Stories.
***
The fire was down to embers, Imaginary Reader was down to his last bite of pickle spear, and moments later, my room was returned to normal. I was left to wonder: Had it even happened at all?
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