efedrina and the imaginable

“What is obvious is misconstrued,
true mysteries are left to the noisy unaware
and the subjectivity of the softly subjunctive.”

Should I venture an opinion?
In Efedrina’s study of terrestrials,
I was merely an experimental subject.

I chose simplicity.
“I’m going to the supermarket.
We’re out of cat food.”

“We have a cat?”

~/~

I sat before the internet shrine
wondering what to click,
while Efedrina searched for the cat.

“No cat.”

“It may be imaginary.”

Efedrina was sharply unimpressed.
“You might have mentioned its irreality.”

“Nothing’s more real than imagination.
When I gaze into your disparate eyes,
colored with the jungle and the ocean,
when I admire your prolific lack of hair,
what I see are symbols, my mind’s inventions
of your alienness.

“Your truth is forever hidden from me.”

She considered my opining.

“The philosophy of a potato.
Let’s see what the picnickers are up to
at Wilderless Park”

“Perfect. I’m thinking symbolic
smoked sardines, hypothetical haloumi,
and two bottles of allegorical Rosé.”


about

Efedrina appears here and here.

artwork

Concrete Reality, from an original photograph of Boral Cement Works at Berrima, courtesy Mark Freeman. Made less concrete with the visual evo engine and CYNDE, cyclic nonlinear desaturation.

2 thoughts on “efedrina and the imaginable

  1. I really like the idea of nothing being more real than imagination. Last night, I had a dream within a dream within a dream and struggled to wake up IN (not from) each one. It was an entertaining (albeit somewhat unsettling) reminder of the mind creating its own reality.
    “What I see are symbols, my mind’s inventions of your alienness.” The protagonist’s self-awareness is commendable, but he was being a bit mean to make Efedrina worry about the imaginary cat. 🙂

    • Thanks, Magarisa. Dreams can provide endless variety if we can recall them. I did read a scifi story where one unlucky character was trapped in an infinite sequence of recursive dreams and never came back to reality.🙀

      I prefer to think the protagonist was simply uncertain, at least initially. There’s a stray cat that spends a lot of time in my yard. I’ve seen stacks of feathers, and once I saw it wander off with an enormous pigeon in its jaws. I suspect it’s feral, and I wouldn’t feed it.

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