It took some time to get through all that juice. But truth be told, I wasn’t all that aware of time, at least not after the fourth carton. Things like time, space, light, language – what are they? A surfeit of pulped pineapple does away with all these, or transports them, so to speak, into a different sphere – an alternate realm. If life, in its usual form, is a bank of grass, the juice of the pineapple bores a hole into this bank, which you, the drinker, may enter, at your rabbit-like will. Or to put it another way: if life is a fence of bricks, this hallowed fluid loosens the sealing cement and breaks away a brick or two, allowing one to put a hand, an arm – maybe even a leg – into a lost domain; another dominion of perception. Pineapple juice unwraps the tissue paper of perceived reality; it unfastens the lock of ordinary existence: it opens a portal unto a singular space, wherein the ordinary laws of nature do not, it seems, apply.
In real terms, what does this mean? Can real terms even say what it means? Will words do? Words will never do, it’s true. They can but try, those poor sweet troopers. We may let them struggle up the mountain of meaning, towards a summit they shall never reach, weighted down by backpacks of insurmountable odds: this is all we can do, all we shall ever allow, will forever permit – and so on and so forth. All of which is to say that, under the potent influence of many a pint of pineapple juice, I experienced things I can barely describe.
And yet here I am, and here you are. And it would be rude of me to take to the exit now, after all this build-up. So on I go…
You may know of the fourteenth century Italian painter Giuseppe Quinta. If you don’t, get thee to a specialist art history library and spend an hour or two gazing at the murals he completed in a small church outside Mantua in 1392. Look out, in particular, for the figures gathered at the centre of the wall to the right of the altar. Notice the folds of their dress. Oh those miraculous, gorgeously tortured folds! I could fold myself up in those folds. Sublime, sumptuous, succulent folds! Was painted cloth ever so sexy as this? I think not. Real cloth rarely approaches it – for which reason I have always considered Quinta’s work to be, for all its brilliance, somewhat over-romantic in tone: somewhat fanciful in its conception.
My over-dose of pineapple juice suggests that I may have been wrong. Such folds can be found in life. A bunched-up jumper can offer thrills as forceful as those set forth by our fourteenth century friend. And all you need to get you there is a heck of a lot of fruit juice. Who’d have thought it?
But of course, this is not all. Not all at all. Pleasures abound in the strange old land of pineapple juice abuse.