Mulled Vine

Check out my lunar dialogue at The Bijou

I am dead. I must be, because life as I know it is missing; nothing remains. Yet, surprisingly, it is not black as you might expect ‘nothing’ to be, but a murky grey misty colour, more like a very low grade ’something’. It is cold, so dreadfully cold, and I long for the warmth of a companion.

Then the grey splits momentarily and a luminous sign flashes by and screams at me, “Drink Coca-Cola!”, before disappearing again into the swirling mist.

The unbearable loneliness returns and soon I long for the next ad break.

“St Peter, I’d like to register a complaint.”

The old man paused from his writing in the Book of Life and raised a quizzical, bushy, white eyebrow at me, “About heaven? Can’t say that has happened to me before.”

I nodded, “Yes, about heaven; I have come across a great injustice: my lifelong friend Joe and I are neighbours, but while he gets to share a room (and who knows what else) with Marilyn Monroe, I got Mrs Froom from up the road! You know, the one with the awful warts!”

He smiled, “Well, you do know that in heaven it is not all about rewards – there are some consequences too: you did some bad things on earth so your “punishment” (we don’t really like to use that word here) is Mrs Froom.”

“But,” I protested, “Joe was certainly no better than me! How come he gets Marilyn Monroe?”

St Peter grinned, “Ah, you see, he is her punishment.”

Little Bobby was spending the weekend with his grandmother. His grandmother decided to take him to the park on Saturday morning. It had been snowing all night and everything was beautiful.

His grandmother remarked, “doesn’t it look like an artist painted this scenery? Did you know God painted this just for you?”

Bobby said, “Yes, God did it and he did it left handed.”

This confused his grandmother a bit, and she asked him, “What makes you say God did this with his left hand?”

“Well,” said Bobby, “we learned at Sunday School last week that Jesus sits on God’s right hand!”

(Source: Comedy Plus)

Change, change, change … never happy … never satisfied with the status quo … never content – I can’t take it any more: I long for stability, predictability, the knowledge that every new day holds no surprises. I know this irks her, but that’s how I am wired, unchangeably so.

But since I know she likes me to be spontaneous I decided last week to be mostly spontaneous today, to make a special effort since it is after all our 17th wedding anniversary.

But then I chickened out, tore up my oneway ticket to Hawaii and the divorce papers, and bought her the usual bunch of marigolds.

“This way … mind your step.”

I trod carefully, the thrill of being led blindfold to a birthday surprise almost overwhelming in it’s intensity.

“Here we go”, spoke the gentle voice of my lifelong friend Jose, soon to be best man at my wedding; I was surprised that he had accepted so graciously since I knew he secretly loved Michaela, but he had, and now this!

“Ready?” he shouted.

I nodded, jumping a little at the sound of his cry.

“Aim!”

“Hasdru foeb ya?”

He was clearly in need so I handed it to him. He smiled gratefully and took the remote control, but then an anxious furrow crossed his brow, “Fgresu yon tsk?”

I pointed at the red button.

He nodded, now understanding completely, and tapped the button.

The air sizzled with crimson lightning and he disappeared, returning to his home in Nevada where the Jones’ wondered what was going on with their garden gnome.

She approached cautiously, her eyes focused intently on my clay tablet: “What are you doing, Kriah?”

I looked up and smiled at my young wife, “I am writing.”

She furrowed her brows, “Writing? What is that?”

I invited her to sit down but she declined, so I replied, “I try to record the things that happen so that our children may read of them.”

“Children?” she snorted. “At this rate we’ll be lucky if we last the winter. Why can’t you be like the other men who hunt food or grow crops for their families? We have nothing but the rags we wear!”

I did not know what to say, and the silence hung heavily between us until she sat down and rested her head on my shoulder, “You bring me much shame with your dreaming, Kriah, but you are my husband and I your wife; will you show me the meaning of these shapes you write so I may understand, and one day, perhaps teach our children?”

You’re insane he said, so I says, how do you know?

He says, because he is not insane and I’m not like him.

So I reply, how do you know you’re the one that’s not insane?

He smiles and points to the people around him. Because, says he, he’s like them and we outnumber you.

He had a point, but then I had the keys to the asylum and I guess at the end of the day, might is right.

At least that is what the voices tell me.

“Eh Miguel, how long we been walking in dees desert?”
“I donno Pepi, but I ees very tired and hungry. I teenk wees gonna die in dees place.”
“Eh Miguel, what dat over deh? I see bacon hanging in a tree. Can eet be real?”
“Pepi, be careful, I don’t tink das a bacon tree. Dees a dangerous place, full of bad gringos.”
“Eh Miguel, you worry too much. I’m gonna get me some bacon.”
“No Pepi, come back. You gonna die! Ees not a bacon tree. Ees a ham bush.”