the plumellon is a stupid fruit. today, there is soft/horrible oldies tunes playing, oh what a night late december night in '53, and the light is flickering above in the produce aisle. this portly man walks by, and he is wearing these 3-d glasses and he loves this place. he tells me/the lettuce bin so in a sing-song voice over the squeaking wheels of transparent house wives/shopping carts buying boxes of little debbies with nap-patterns from their wedding rings embedded in the left side of their faces. this is glorious, his voice, i smile about it to myself/my feet. i brought the plumellon fruit to a creek and sat with it balanced on my knees hoping to feed it to turtles; but the turtles are busy at their turtle schools telling the trout what to do. be quiet. sit on your bottom. do not cut in front of me. there is a group of rowdy shirtless boys throwing frisbees in the air around me so i leave with a big brown reed in my teeth. the reeds with hotdogs stabbed onto them. while i am there, the water is too smelly and rotting to touch, and i do not understand how to sustain sagging plontoons between myself and everyone in my great familiar swimming-pool. connection and the like, cut telephone wires shooting sparks over the streets. and if this were a play, the pruney people making splashing sounds in the swimming pool would be electrocuted and begin bobbing to the surface in their swimming trunks and purple lips/giant X's replace their eyes. i sit over this landscape and say, oh no oh no. look at this mess. but i am not horribly upset. just seperate, concerned with the insurmountable substance of impending defeat. aldous huxley/george orwell. great void of my own future. /james joyce. what is it with self-imposed isolationism? i see no large lip-smacking satisfaction in this. these gentle creatures have it mapped in perfect caligraphy on pressed linen napkins they tuck into their shirt-collars before breakfast every morning, and i MURDER them with disaffection. or not so much a murder, as much as a natural occurrance. time patterns. rotting fruit. fog at night time. we are a seperate kind i see now. mumble mumble. doubt doubt. 
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