“Tuydon Bropdon”
was the name of the gelato we were searching for on the Peloponnesus. Night had fallen and we were running down an alley to find the shop before it closed. No, not Greece: Italy. Gelato comes from Italy. With berries so sweet they had to have been grown in fields tilled by the Devil himself. Wait a sec. The Devil can’t grow anything, much less till a field. Doesn’t like blisters. And berries like these grow on brambles with thorns. Those thorns can make a person can bleed. Which the Devil would like, I think. In front of a mirror, admiring his horns. Oh, I’m sick of the Devil! I don’t want to think about him any more! I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!
Once we came out of the alleyway there was daylight, and plenty of it. Actually, there wasn’t any alley. Just a lot of burnt grass, and maybe some plain trees in the distance. Perhaps not so flat as I now remember. And you weren’t even there, come to think of it. All of a sudden I was shoved in the back of a delivery truck. The roller door was so loud, and then it all went black (sound of whistling, cab door closing, sound of ignition, and soon a rocking motion moving very slowly over twin ruts going deep into the heart of nowhere, gentle as the swaying hips of that old whore in Budapest). Man, that sun was friggin' hot. Darkness was a salve.
No, it wasn’t Uganda either. Or Hungary. And it was definitely something more than imaginary, or somewhere. That leaves Oregon, in the woods off I-205 where cool waters flow along the circadian banks of the Columbia river. 'Arcadian' is what I mean, but I like the way 'circadian' fits as well. French explorers named it Ouragan, "the river of storms," although columba, as you probably know, is the Latin word for ‘dove’, inferring peace. Anyway, those berries are good. You should get some. The ice cream, I mean, or gelato, or whatever it is; I understand it’s quite popular now, and available at any Baskin and Robbins. Because. At the end of the day, when push comes to shove and all is said and done in the final analysis, everything comes from God. Everything.
Once we came out of the alleyway there was daylight, and plenty of it. Actually, there wasn’t any alley. Just a lot of burnt grass, and maybe some plain trees in the distance. Perhaps not so flat as I now remember. And you weren’t even there, come to think of it. All of a sudden I was shoved in the back of a delivery truck. The roller door was so loud, and then it all went black (sound of whistling, cab door closing, sound of ignition, and soon a rocking motion moving very slowly over twin ruts going deep into the heart of nowhere, gentle as the swaying hips of that old whore in Budapest). Man, that sun was friggin' hot. Darkness was a salve.
No, it wasn’t Uganda either. Or Hungary. And it was definitely something more than imaginary, or somewhere. That leaves Oregon, in the woods off I-205 where cool waters flow along the circadian banks of the Columbia river. 'Arcadian' is what I mean, but I like the way 'circadian' fits as well. French explorers named it Ouragan, "the river of storms," although columba, as you probably know, is the Latin word for ‘dove’, inferring peace. Anyway, those berries are good. You should get some. The ice cream, I mean, or gelato, or whatever it is; I understand it’s quite popular now, and available at any Baskin and Robbins. Because. At the end of the day, when push comes to shove and all is said and done in the final analysis, everything comes from God. Everything.
posted by Quin Finnegan at 9:59 AM
3 Comments:
Everything. Especially gelato.
a dREAM?
Thank you, Monsieurs Swaim and Young.
Yes, especially gelato.
No, this was no mere dream. But yes, dreams come from God as well. In the final analysis.
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