Another glorious morning. Plenty sunshine, no wind, and the moon lingering high up in the pale blue skies. Even the crows seem to have taken a break from their routine cackles and shrieks. I seem to be happily marooned in this small island of light and quiet in a world of my own. And yet, in spite of such bounty of concentrated nothing, from where I sit, this space doesn’t seem that small. All sorts of possibilities pull at its edges, making it seem capable of stretching into infinity. So, maybe, it’s not so quiet after all. Not because it isn’t, but because my mind is busy turning the fields of this space into tracts for erecting bustling metropoleis for the restless wishes, desires, regrets, hopes, ambitions, and all those hordes of the imagination that mistake the map for the territory.¹
1. With the mistaking the map for the territory, I am invoking the ghost of Alfred Korzybski, but I am also thinking (more and less abstractly) of recent artwork by Cate Olds (twitter handle: @c8nhogarth) that marks the issues of map and territory through color.