I imagine a small house. Discreet, in the middle of an inner suburb, near public transportation. I hope I own it, but I seriously doubt that. Let's say I can afford it, given the efforts I expect myself to undertake.
I imagine a small plot of land. Very small. A patch really; given over to a small indulgence of self-sufficiency which would be easily matched by a quick trip to the store, but nevertheless it is naively and amateurishly cultivated in a loving way. It is a gesture to good intentions which hopefully will grow into a peace of mind one day. I struggle to find the time to attend to it however, such are the demands of work.
I imagine saying hello every morning and evening to curious neighbours. I shrug off their wariness. They'll get to know me in due course, and they'll become relaxed, reassured I'm a safe pair of hands in their neighbourhood. I will help them if I can, and ask their advice from time to time, perhaps about civic matters.
I dream of discussing the various merits and drawbacks of R and LISP with Greg Chaitin at a mathematics conference, of sitting languidly in Albert Park and watching a group practising Tai Chi, of reading William James and Gertrude Stein over coffee in the library, pondering phenomenological sameness and daring to formulate my own theory of poetical decompression. The incompatibility of pattern in post-modernism initially flummoxes me, but to press on is exciting. Elegant solutions come to me in dreams. Only in dreams. Rationalism takes a strange turn and poetry blossoms there, in a dream of Auckland.
