I imagine I see the world through the viewfinder of this camera. Bright sun light gleams through. Hints of yesterday's clouds. Fresh-trimmed grass. The dry street. The darkened windows of the rental house across the street.
I imagine you, reading these words, peering into these mysterious pixels, trying to imagine you see these things as well. Imagining you see my face. Imagining you hear my voice, even as I imagine it while typing these words. I imagine you, with your coffee or tea, your morning radio, your sliced fruit, your inviting house. I imagine you, man & woman, friend and relation, drawing by this screen as our grandparents drew around the radio or tv. I imagine the community we are, the community we could be.
I imagine your voice. I imagine your warmth, your smile. I imagine your patience and your tolerance. I imagine you in California, in South America, in Michigan, in Ulverston. I imagine you strolling by this space, looking through all these words.
I remember, as a child, walking past window displays as Grandmother and I would walk down the street. I remember fascination with small animated villages, trains running through faux snowscapes. I remember the eerie faceless manikins. I often walk neighborhood streets, daydreaming of the dining room scenes, of the secret stories unspooling behind those doors.
That's how I imagine us: People passing by these electronic spaces, peering into each others' windows. Me, I don't leave much room to view between the blind slats. I keep my voice low, unless I'm singing.
Automatic writing, originally posted on Facebook