Vicodramble

Reality splinters like shards of broken glass.  Following the cracks thoughts take substance and the idea about politics becomes the red leather belt I meant to put in the collection for the thrift shop. 

Going through thoughts other items fall in the bag; the confusedly-religious-alligator jimmy choos, the socially conscious polypropylene/faux-fur riding coat, and the proven-reliable-comfy-worn-died-in-the-wool-old-standby-cotton secret from victoria.  The bag, stuffed with thoughts, noisily resisted the addition of other garments.  Fine.  Off to the charity shop.

The window showed winter.  Again.  So putting on layers for warmth, I steeled myself against the cool and prepared to fight arctic air on my journey.  Breathing deeply, I opened the door and walked onto the beach.  The bag cheered and began to argue about where we would set up our blanket and who would get laid out first.

I noted that jimmy and victoria were settling into a debate about whether or not the catholic church and the anglican church should indeed reunite, when the belt started bringing into the conversation the political history of the two pointing out the impossibility of reconciliation.  The bag tightened trying to muffle the sounds of gargumentation coming from the depths.  A couple, seriously engaged in the task of lotioning each other from head to toe, requested silence as they pointed to the sign:

Low Tide: 2 pm
Think at your own risk.

They muttered Can you believe some people?  In public!  And just before Low Tide.  The lotion, true to its label, encouraged calmness and conditioned their thoughts toward the bag.  Aromatherapeutically, it eased the tension on the beach.

A second of lucidity had me putting all my thoughts back in the bag and heading up the street.  Beach in winter?  Churches reuniting?  How much more nonsense can one take.  I looked up searching for the street, and to my surprise, a bottle flew past my head.  Feeling like a seeker, I hopped the bag and commanded my thoughts to soar.  It was golden with wings, and it flew to the left and right cutting back and forth with incredible speed.  Jimmy’s ideas took me to a level spot, but Victoria would get him racing…as needed I’d question the belt, the nightie, the pumps, and we chased the golden bottle.

The riding jacket brought up the Oscars and Al Gore’s movie, to my chagrin.  The bag slowed to an almost halt.  Here we were so close to grasping the golden bottle, and I was being thwarted by a jacket!  So I asked the belt and the pumps about the war in Iraq, and off we flew once more.

Soaring over the alley ways, there were a bunch of metaphysicats scrounging for alternate planes in the bins.  Their scratching and meowing turned into language its own.  A cross between singing and guttural expletives.  The harshness of sound coupled with the raging debate between the accessories was overwhelming. 

Wearying of ever snatching the golden bottle or finding the charity shop, I landed the bag in a field of paper flowers.  There was a handbag in the sack and she started sneezing.  We were captured by the beauty of the field, while she was only enthrallergic.

Pierces called me back to the sheets.  One eye at a time, opening slowly.  It’s 10:48 am, winter, clothes strewn about, flowers in the vase, and the bottle is by my bed...open...inviting...

jlh
4 March 2007