Writing Nonsense is Fun!

"Bowl of Fruit"
Watercolor and Pen & Ink

The assignment in writing class was to write about something that made no sense. This was a relief to me as my previous two stories had been memoirs concerning my relationships with my parents (who look down from above as I write here now). Of course, lots of unresolved sadness came up during these tributes (still tough to handle after all the years), so I welcomed this new writing challenge and found myself playing and frolicking with words. Writing this was fun, yet I was surprised at how it flowed. So it follows here. P.S. Couldn't resist adding a painting above. The only link I see with it and the story that follows is the purple grapes. Or maybe posting the "still" life is a way to balance the free flow of words that follow.......Can I imagine painting this story, hm, a challenge!

No Sense this Nonsense

The paint sucks me in, into a world of gooey colors that stick on me, coloring my perspective of life. Another viewpoint, another smell, and then I smell ink and I am walking on paper, making purple footprints on the parchment, stamping myself forever into somethingthat lies beyond me and as I walk, a cemetary comes into view and I am sucked down into a gravestone, deep I go mingling with the departed before me and then I am whisked up into the sky and I float high above and see painters sitting, painting everywhere, painting the monuments with angels perched on them and the angels begin to fly into the sky, joining me, holding my hands pulling me down to earth and I plop down hard, hardly noticing the bumps and bruises, my heart feels bruised from lack of painting, so I grab a piece of paper and trace the indentations of the names and words on the cold stone monuments, I throw the paper into the wind and wings emerge and the paper flies and I fly again and so it goes I am weightless now not feeling not being just
light as the paper and I have wings now and I sing and my harp in my fingers plays graceful beauty and the harp disappears and now a paintbrush is held by my trembling hands and I paint the skies purple so many shades of purple and a cluster of grapes comes into view and
I pluck one into my mouth and the grape screams in pain and I spit it out and it floats to the ground and disappears into another cemetary and then the ground spits it up and purple wine flows everywhere, everywhere and the people drink it, drink it deep into their parched throats and then they dance, drunk with magic, magic sweeps them from head to toe and they giggle and rise up to me, where I float on the cloud and the cloud bounces and then I take a bite of the cloud and white marshmallow fluff surrounds my mouth and the cluster of grapes sticks to me and soaks me and I am now purple, I feel spiritual, the color purple is heavenly to me and I
display my robes with pride and wonder. Wondering at my journey which is a dream or not so I pinch myself and I do not wake up so I am not dead or am I I feel good inside and want to float up, floating up and then float on a turquoise sea, with bottles filled with messages surrounding
me and I peek into a bottle and it sucks me inside into its narrow passage and I bob up and down in the water, fish nearby look at me with fish-eyed gazes and I return the stare wanting to ride their backs but feeling frustrated in my prison. No one cares as I make my journey out to sea and then I wash onto shore and lay there in the bottle hoping to break out of my enclosure. Suddenly I expand and the glass breaks and I run onto the beach, making purple footprints in the sand, sucking on grapes and making sand angels on the sandy landscape. A crab wanders up to me, pinching me, asking me if I am dreaming. Do you feel this, the crab says wickedly and I take the crab and open up the drawbridge of the sandcastle and lock him up. Oh, how beautiful, crab exclains. Come inside and see what I see. And I decide to fly into one of the stained glass windows and sit down on a thrown. My eyes are dazzled by the beauty within and crab has crown on his head and I see paintings on the wall, they are my paintings that I have painted many years ago. I feel crabby that I cannot get rid of these creatures. I want to lighten my load now, yet like adult children they want to move back home. Moving swiftly, Crab pinches me and plops his crown on my head. I am now his chosen one.
Beverly Bronson 2008