counter pragmatically
I can see a version of my life near the ocean. In this version of my life I wake up early and instead of an alarm clock I have a dog. Some kind of big and fuzzy monster that jumps up onto my bed, barks a little and looks at me intently until I get up to take him out for a morning walk. The two of us eat breakfast together in a small dinning room that has a window facing the ocean. After eating, my dog dutifully settles into his mid-morning nap at the foot of my desk and I sit down to write. The window is open letting in cold salt air and the sound of seagulls. In a parallel world I am writing at this very moment, looking out the window, watching joggers pass by. I wonder if that parallel version of me is happier than the actual version of me. Does he wonder about living in the bay area and spending half his nights with a girlfriend in san francisco. He probably writes about imaginary travels to far away countries made possible by a career in politics which he choose not to pursue. And both of us from time to time imagine about a third version and a fourth version. A journalist, a musician, a corporate executive who imagines owning a kennel in Southern Oregon.
There is a woman with no face in each version, with no height or weight, no hair or eye color, no hobbies or vocations. A phantom companion who writes and reads and sits with me at breakfast. We cook dinner together, side stepping eachother in the kitchen and she comments on how we chop vegetables differently. "Every family has it's traditions," I reply. I watch her chop an onion and can't even begin to conceive of how she cuts, first horizontally then vertically, keeping the onion seemingly whole until she is finished and it falls apart into perfect little cubes. An impossible puzzle to recreate.
There is a woman with no face in each version, with no height or weight, no hair or eye color, no hobbies or vocations. A phantom companion who writes and reads and sits with me at breakfast. We cook dinner together, side stepping eachother in the kitchen and she comments on how we chop vegetables differently. "Every family has it's traditions," I reply. I watch her chop an onion and can't even begin to conceive of how she cuts, first horizontally then vertically, keeping the onion seemingly whole until she is finished and it falls apart into perfect little cubes. An impossible puzzle to recreate.