I spend a lot of time in my head. Believe me, you don’t want to visit. It’s terribly unorganized to someone not from here.
My head is filled with fodder, kindling, string and ribbon. Sunlight shines on old blue jeans and comic books, on dancing shoes, and my younger, older brother’s junk drawer.
You can see the lights of a carnival at night, complete with the Ferris wheel, . . . and cotton candy, and plastic ducks in water. My older, older brother’s books are stacked tall in the corner.
Stories sit on a shelf, hoping I’ll find a reason to tell them.
Clothing hangs in bags above a wooden floor, that has the words, music, love, and people once written in the dust by a little girl’s finger. The letters are artful and lasting.
A world view from atop an elephant — I wasn’t the least bit scared because my dad was on the ground watching me — adds a gloriously inviting perspective. The colors turn to black and white and back again to the entire spectrum, even the shades we can’t see.
And the breathtaking harmonies whisper softly most days, except when someone is unhappy. Then minor chords filter through on a breeze too quiet, and too serene.
The best part is that no ceiling, no walls, define this bit of a place. I like to think I planned it that way, but who’s to say that’s so or isn’t? I only know it works best that it’s that way.
It’s where I imagine, wonder, puzzle, marvel, sense, and reckon, devise, remember, create, and conjure. It’s there I have ideas of amazing size or shape about profound and frivolous conceptual things.
In this world of amazing, profound, and frivolous thinkings . . . I have a big idea.
It’s as big as the world, and it’s getting bigger.
Wouldn’t it seem natural that our ideas should expand as we figure out what’s inside of our heads?
