Different Floors of the House

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Puter Vinum

Og had a crazy L. Ron Hubbard dream the other night. Richard had wacky dream the other night he was talking about on Facebook...but I lost that one. I think Joan is engaged in some quodlibetal discourse with her dark Orpheus even when she's awake...or else she's in some perpetual state of primordial somnambulance...That woman dreams constantly...

Anyway, maybe it's the talking about the dreaming that is the Jungian diaspora here, and not the dreaming itself. Who's to know?

The insane grape knows.

I ran into what I thought was an insane grape at Winco. Which is weird, because I never do the shopping around here...like, at all.  This grape, one of the little purpley kinds, insisted on striking up a conversation with me while I was reading the nutrition facts on a microwavable dinner box. (I told you, I don't shop) I don't know, I guess I was feeling a little depressed that day and really didn't feel I had the patience to deal with any talking fruit. And I'm telling you, I tried to ignore the little fella, but he was simply too persistent--almost to the point of being sour.

So...this little puter vinum goes on to inform me that he wasn't just some little out-of-date grape lost in the frozen food section looking for a handout or a nice tub of sweet cream to dip himself in...which was a relief, because if I know anything, I know that little purpley grapes donned in the dulcet drapery of thick..smooth...sweet...whipped cream...


He went on and on about the state of grapes and the tragedy of being the only grape he knew that he could relate to. I figured, like you probably would, that this grape was crazy and needed some serious medication. I went about shopping as the little guy bounced and rolled around behind me telling me his life's story and the injustice bestowed upon him by Garth--the produce manager. To be honest I don't really recall what exactly he was going on about, but I do remember stopping by the pharmacy and staring at a pamphlet for Paxil. The grape kept rambling on and--I don't know what it was, really--but I just started busting out laughing. I was pointing at the happy lady on the cover of the brochure. She was swinging on a tire swing in some happy meadow.  Drenched in sunshine.  Doped out to the max on happy.  Happy. Happy. Happy.  The grape wasn't amused. Come to think of it, I don't think this little grape had eyes...so maybe he couldn't see the irony the abject joys of anti-depressant stimulation can bring...

Whatever the case, I had to clam up and move along when the pharmacist peeked his nerdy little head around a shelf of pharmacological goodies and scowled at me.

F--- you, I thought, I'm talking to the grape, here.

Anyway, the dream gets fuzzy after this. I remember something about the Legendary Golden Peel of Chiquita and the Tomato Underground--as the grape called it.  But, almost immediately after leaving the pharmacy, the little grape disappeared and there I was, alone, swinging on a tire swing in some fecund meadow.  I was smiling.  I was really, really, smiling.

Don't think about this.  Just shrug your shoulders and hit the "Next Blog" button at the top of the page.

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