Liberated Intelligence

I listen to an amused Neil Gaiman defying literary scholarship’s desire to shove him within the pinhole of genre. It’s not magical realism, this is just where my head goes, he asserts Friday night to the 1300 sponge heads assembled for the MIT Comparative Media Studies lecture. He’d already had me at abandoned Victorian dolls are much more horrifying than a glistening fully functional iron maiden. He is explosive. I willingly surrender to the shrapnel of his imagination. Some of it sticks, pleasantly.


The next day I’m cocooned within the warmth of my car, reading alongside a road in a town with observable mathematics. There are more bookshops and music stores per square block than grades of milk. Men ride by on choppers, in measured intervals of three, silken beards lazily blowing in the breeze. Patience is dense. Smiles denser. There is dancing in the streets and jazz in the re-purposed cotton mills.

And I think to myself:

Everything that exists was once a daydream. A fantastical pastiche of man-made what ifs. So in essence, today and everyday, I am sitting within another man’s daydream. Even in my dreams, I’m still within the architecture of someone’s imagination past. Ha — to think I once believed it was impossible to enter another’s mind.

It’s very comforting to feel that I am creating within this gathered actualization. Hmm. Perhaps someday someone may appreciate living within my cumulative daydream.