Apples and ENTRY 126
I’ve heard their are ways to move things.
so I started with some meditation
and an image of an apple. She
I imagined it,
looked at the soft skin
rotated it in the air,
pulled out the stem of it
sliced it open, looked at
the seeds of
things to be
and then watched the seeds spray out
and up like a splash of water
when a pebble hits water on a lake.
I remember that the seeds tasted like bananas
even though you weren’t supposed to eat them.
Many things are forbidden.
I imagined the apple put back together again,
like us, and
I remembered how she smelled,
how, by love, I moved her, and
she moved me to see us
I’m trying to re-learn Utd’mbts, so I started with some meditation and imaging exercises. I used an image of an apple. I imagined it and looked at the skin and rotated it, pulled out the stem and sliced it open, looked at the seeds and then watched the seeds spray out and up like a splash of water when a pebble hits water on a lake. I remember that the seeds tasted like bananas even though you weren’t supposed to eat them. I imagined the apple put back together again, and then I imagined a red apple on a green table cloth, then a green apple on a red table cloth, and then a red apple on a yellow table cloth, and then a blue table cloth… And so I went through many imaging exercises, and I remember how it smelled and felt.
But then, somehow, I remembered the exercise that Zawmb’yee did with the pineapple, and I thought about the apples split open again with hinges like the spines of books.
But anyway, I got into trouble because the Chef at Angela’s complained that all the apples were sliced part way and opened like little books and he thought it was vandals…I must have done a little accidental psychokinesis.
The sanctity of the Moose Café was violated and the Chef charged out like a rhinoceros ready to gore any challenger. “Angela, how do you expect me to make apple pie when vandals have torn up my apples? Did you not set the alarm? This is a disgrace!”
“What do you mean,” said Angela.
“All the apples are split open like little books. I can’t make apple pie with these brown and spoiling, rotting monstrosities. And even if I would want to use this detritus, how do I know if the vandals washed their hands, and what would the health inspector say. I can’t even make apple cider if I don’t know whose hands have been touching the apples. And if there’ve been vandals through my apples, what else have they touched? Oh God, call the police, call somebody, call the TV station reporter, call the FBI, or call the Food Police, or the First Lady, or Lassie or someone. Take finger prints… I will quit if I have to. I will not work anywhere where I can NOT personally inspect the cleanliness and purity of the food. I will not have my reputation tarnished.”
I didn’t tell Angela why I would be so generous, but I paid for a new alarm system and all new supplies. But of course I knew it was all irrelevant.