DREAM #.070110: "MOSSY STUBBLE OF THE FOOD BREATHERS"

      
     Another party dream.  I'm throwing the party, this time, a very important party in my lavish home, and it's not as easy as you'd think, even with an elite staff of planners at my beck and call.  There are so many strangelings on my guest list, each with delusions of cosmic entitlement and highly idiosyncratic needs, comfort-wise.
    Some guests will need all their food to be raw.  All their fruits must be tortured to perfection.   All their nuts must be chastised by rabbis.  All their animal meats must be ritually murdered and skinned by autistic children.  The skins must be slit and stitched into designer bathing caps for some elderly folks whose nursing home had its back yard turned into a toxic waste dump.  Maybe this is a fund raiser.  The senior citizens in question have since grown gills.  Swimming should be sexy.  it's where all life comes from.  From deep inside and underneath.
     One of the more cutting edge celebrities at my party insists on having her meal vaporized.  She then inhales the vapor through very chic-looking tubes.  The tinted plastic bubble on her head fogs briefly and then she burps.  It's like a designer baby-burp, the most elegant little glitch in an angel's digestion.  The most fleeting of perfumes, at once evoking swaying sun-scarred cornfields and steaming equatorial riverbeds, like her metabolism is as rich and as pure as the rainforests were before the white man came and tweaked the gardens of Eden into star-splashed showrooms, all this marshmallow static and hot pink plastic.
     She does seem ever so slightly more vibrant and alive than the rest of us.  So alive she can't quite hide the moss she grows instead of hair.  Mossy stubble of the food breathers.
     Where some would see a symptom, the fanatic finds a sign.