It’s like I’ve discovered imagination for the first time. Flexing to see what I can and can’t do and realizing, with a thrill: I can do anything. I can fill my chest with strawberries. I can fill my heart with strawberries. I can fill the mountain with strawberries.
Thought and feeling feed each other without friction or delay. Thought is lush with feeling. In a cave in the belly of the mountain, a lake, covered with ice. Below the surface of the lake, seals. The seals are nosing strawberries up through holes in the ice. On the surface of the lake, people are skating and dancing. Time is moving fast; centuries go by. The seals keep at their work. Bless those seals.
Tiny strawberries in our blood. Invisible strawberry storms, moving through us like dark matter. Jam. Big furry catapults, launching arcs of berries, playing catch. The thrill of these images—each rich and saturated with meaning—and then thrill at the quantity of images, how quickly they come, how inexhaustible the chain.
Strawberries racing up the side of the mountain, a ten-foot-wide swath, covering the bare ground. We’re going fast. Everything beautiful I’ve ever known is close at hand. Kent’s laughter filters into the room, I open my eyes, I’m in a bed, it’s afternoon. If this is ground, it, too, is magical.