Thursday, June 30, 2011


WARNING: The last paragraph of this piece is definitely Not Safe For Work. If you are prudish at all, then simply do not read the last paragraph. While the last paragraph may seem completely disjointed from the rest, the two are a cohesive whole and make a singular point. I thought about simply leaving that paragraph out of this posting so no one would be offended. However, that wouldn't be true to the "Art," the piece, or myself. You have been warned.

Written Jan 13, 1996.


It came to me in a dream. A revelation if you will . . .

What is it with cardboard shelves? Those folded, corrugated, racks you see at the ends of the aisles and in front of the counters at liquor stores and such. What magical, mythical qualities do they have to impart upon their contents, their wares? Is it the intricate folding patterns, derived by topological wizards? The smooth, shiny surface catching the fluorescent light as you walk by? The bright colors? Or perhaps that white circle, conveniently provided by the graphics and marketing minions, for the shopkeeper to fill in the price? But they never do. Left blank, in haste or neglect, they stare back at you like a giant, unblinking, pupil-less, cyclops eye.

But there is no magical vision. No mythical siren call. They are, after all, mere cardboard. Pressed brown fibers the same as the unassuming cartons those wine bottles were delivered in.

365 bottles of wine on the shelves.
    365 bottles of wine.
Take some down and . . .

. . . put them on cardboard racks and they achieve instant notoriety. People want to buy them. Take them home, savour that mythical taste. Yet, the only thing that really sets these bottles apart is that the are, well, set apart. Separated from the rest, on their flimsy cardboard stands, they are, therefore, unique. Separation, simply not being where the rest are, is the only thing able to impart those mystical qualities.

"Ah-hah!", thinks the shopkeeper. "I will put all of my wine on cardboard racks. Then they will all be special. People will want to buy them all. Take all of them home. Enjoy lots and lots of mythical flavor. And I will be very wealthy indeed!"

"A mistake.", I say. "A foolish and naive mistake." With all of the wine displayed in cardboard grandeur there are none, now, set apart. No unique quality. No myth, no mysticism, no magic. (Not to mention making a bull in a china shop seem a mere nuisance.) I believe it is good to leave 360 bottles on the shelves, thus to have five with magic. And, when you chance upon the magic, standing alone and apart at the end of the aisle, do not hesitate to taste of it. Revel in it with passion. Savour the heady drunkenness, knowing the next bottle will not even compare. If you let this one slip over your tongue without appreciation, then it will be gone. Not even a memory, fading or otherwise.

Her sinewy, cream, legs clamped around my hips. Her pert breasts bounce as I walk from room to room. Nipples brushing against mine. Occasional walls, the refrigerator, and doorframes giving additional power to our thrusts. A doorframe, Doorframe, DOORframe! My hands entangle her infinite blond hair against her back while her nails bite into mine. Orgasms, but minor distractions from the giving and receiving of raw, unmitigated, pleasure.

The contents of this post is Copyright © 2011 by Grant Sheridan Robertson.

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