This afternoon light makes one delerious.
Dinner is started. Dogs are bored. The trees outside are glowing with yellow light, almost as if they invented it. I can hear the mechanical grape harvester chewing and blowing its way through the vineyard. There is no water pressure, the baby grapes in the new vineyard to the south of us must be getting their gallons.
I am newly interested in a poet, Russell Edson. Here is the poem responsible for this recent inquiry...
Oh My God, I'll Never Get Home
A piece of a man had broken off in a road. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. As he stooped to pick up another piece he came apart at the waist. His bottom half was still standing. He walked over on his elbows and grabbed the seat of his pants and said, legs go home. But as they were going along his head fell off. His head yelled, legs stop. And then one of his knees came apart. But meanwhile his heart had dropped out of his trunk. As his head screamed, legs turn around, his tongue fell out. Oh my God, he thought, I'll never get home.
Sorry, I guess that is a little macabre. For some reason, I really like it, probably because I have felt like that now and then. As a young child I used to watch my arm grow really really long, and then it would swell beyond the size of an adult arm, like a jackinthebeanstalk appendage. When that didn't scare me anymore, I used to look forward to the sensation, especially if it arrived in my legs which would grow beyond the end of my bed.
Hmmm. That might sound weird to some.
Random. Who invented reality, anyways?