A work of the imagination

by Christos Polydorou

I fall down holes all the time. I am walking down a familiar street in South London where I live, cutting through an open gate, ending up in a clearing covered in grass and surrounded by sycamore trees, only to be distracted by another life, one I lived, years, perhaps even centuries ago, when I was a poet in Ancient Greece, particularly Troy, following Homer around, making sure he knew his facts, so he could subvert them. Homer was writing about the meeting point of the body and the spirit, in particular the moment the one spills into the other, gaining the characteristics of the next, so that the body becomes a pliant thing, one subject to transformations, so that someone, hurt by love, could quite possibly transform into a river to represent that pain. That person has not literally not turned into a river. Homer now is saying something about mermaids or caryatids or the heartbreak of princesses, I cannot quite hear him, as I am back in the present moment, on a Wednesday, December 7th, 2016, as myself, not Homer’s assistant.

Imagination precedes the experience.

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