Natalie Goldberg, in her entertaining and irritatingly inspiring book Writing Down the Bones, a book that's been around since 1986, so it's been inspiring and irritating for over a generation now, writes of Russell Edson, who would sit down and write off ten short pieces in a session, always beginning with an absurd but strong first sentence like, "As a man sauteed his hat he was thinking of how his mother used to saute his father's hat, and how grandmother used to saute grandfather's hat, " or "Like a white snail the toilet seat slides into the living room, demanding to be loved." Her invitation is to follow this lead, to "dive into absurdity and write."

So I tried.

Here's what's come out--at least these are two I don't mind sharing:

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Ginger stepped orangely out of the rainbow and strolled through the unobstructed vision Ralph thought he was having of his rosy future.  He removed his glasses to make sure he had the right chromatic correction, then replaced them. No. She definitely came from a shade or two too far up the spectrum. Too bad, too, because in every other respect she was a perfect fit for the life Ralph had planned far into his level-headed future. He began to reconsider his options, wondering if maybe he hadn’t set his sights a tad too narrowly, or if some cosmetic adjustment could make up for her deficiencies. Ginger, a playful sort who had just wanted to add a little spice to the life stewing flavorlessly in Ralph’s monochromatic imagination, grew impatient with his dithering and procrastination, and withdrew, back into the prism that was her home. “I simply have no time for the terminally bland,” she muttered.

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The Queen Margharita pizza ordered the customers at the table to pay attention.  She was steamed. Well, baked, actually. Not half-baked, like before, like earlier on when nothing had gone right. She wanted fully to be the star, celebrated at this moment when something like perfection seemed possible out of the disgrace of earlier the same evening.   

The idiot rookie line cook who had falsified his resumé had begun a trial incarnation with a cheap undergarment of some ghastly commercial pesto before anyone could stop him. Then for a petticoat layer, he’d poured some weird reddish sauce over the pesto—which did deserve being hidden, but still…. A lady has her standards.  Then he had layered on an overskirt of processed mozzarella slices, the taste and texture of semi-congealed wall plaster. She had been sent out looking so common, then ingloriously been sent back, to finally just slip herself off the platter and into hiding in a plastic bin.

She had re-emerged in all her regal splendour when a qualified courtier, understanding the job and sensing the importance of decorum and occasion, fitted her out to emerge with dignity and command appreciation for all her richness. Her unbaked nakedness first moisturized and rouged with deep crushed romas;  this foundation decorated with an overlayer of tiny perfect dots of buffalo bocconcini buds, elegantly arranged and floated over the smooth silk of the tomatoes; a few perfect, locally grown, fresh basil leaves delicately, greenly, accenting the whole—just enough to get the aromas wafting into the hall. She commanded respect for her elegant simplicity, and everyone had damned well better acknowledge the fact.

She just hoped the diners were talented and gracious enough to appreciate what she brought to the occasion, whatever it was. There was no going back this time. She’d rather go out the front door cold and ignored in a doggy bag than have to return, discarded, to the kitchen with all the common trash.