A room with: a baby grand Steinway, a tree in a pot, a lemon tree, a clown running in place (only when I summon him/it), a shrimp buffet-tent (several preparations of shrimp), an elevator that takes me to an observation lounge where Patrick Stewart, Levar Burton and Jonathan Frakes are sitting at a table, an ashtray, several cigarettes, a bowl of punch comprised mostly of cranberry juice and Vernor’s, a door leading to a dry room with a typewriter, a towel and a framed black and white photograph of Mohandas Gandhi on the wall above a smoldering fireplace, a jukebox with Mendelssohn and Rachmaninov and Bobby McFerrin and Radiohead, a small refrigerator with tomatoes and basil and salami in it.
I can say I love tomatoes. I thought about it for a while – the semantics of it. But, it’s true, I love tomatoes. I also love (after having thought about these things in-depth): small pieces of wooden furniture with wicker somehow on them, how old black men talk, how old black women think, watching plants grow up, listening to fans, getting into my Honda, first bass-notes, getting my hair cut, saying “How’ya doin'” to an intimidating man on the street, validating the unassuming, opening a package of toilet-paper, model train sets.
It has been thought by many billionaires that “you must imagine the future”, or something similar to that. I say you must imagine regardless of the future. If our country is doomed to depression and chaos, riots, turmoil, I will not give up on my imagination. If our country comes out of this spiral, I will keep my imagination.