by Martin Grove   

The night I wrote this, more than two years ago, my girl friend and I were having an argument in my room. She leapt off the bed behind me and stormed towards the door.

            "Everything is language," I called to her over my shoulder.

            She slammed the door and then yanked it open again. I heard her stop in the doorframe. "But you told me you hated raisins!" She was hysterical and frustrated.

            "Why do you think I said that?" I asked innocently, knowing full well the reason why.

            She groaned as if she meant to give up completely (I was not very reasonable in this respect) but she couldn't resist one last jab. "You told me yourself you moron. You can't even smell a raisin without getting sick to your stomach. But you sit there night after night turning them over one by one with that stupid looking gas mask on like you expect one of them to reveal a great life- affirming question to you. Like they hold the meaning of existence. You, the great raisin saint will discover this secret, kept since the beginning of raisonity and reveal it to all the raisins in the world and they will worship you and flourish you with magnificent riches and praise for the painstaking sacrifices you've made during your benevolent quest. You're so damn selfish. Look at you, you make me sick!" And she left slamming the door behind her, but I remained focused stolidly over my desk.

            I thought about it for a long minute, about what the meaning of it all might be. I decided that deep down, despite what I said, I really liked them. It’s true there was something about them that deeply offended my sensibilities, even tormenting my soul in virtue of their precious something I still don’t understand…what was it? Some inherent unwillingness they possessed to not conform into something neat, orderly and beautiful or their sticky resistance to divide without smearing a mess everywhere. How many times had I tried to convince myself, despite the evidence, that they had within them the dynamic rebound potential of my test pebbles? But the experiments always failed.

One way I tested them was by holding three of any one kind of test subject in one hand about chest level. I drop the subjects together and measure how far they rebound in different directions. I try and judge their random diversity quantity by graphing the coordinates of where the same objects land after many attempts on varying surface textures. The raisins always proved to be both less versatile and invariably less interesting than round smooth pebbles or even jagged edged pebbles of a similar density. In hindsight they must have something else that I hadn’t been looking for…

The real truth is, my girl friends’ words always hit close to home. I did have a more personal problem with raisins than I was willing to admit, perhaps on a chemical level, and despite my persistent investigations into their nature I was insecure about the spiritual implications that the task might bring to bear on me. So I had to tell myself, “I like raisins but they don’t always agree with me” and I’ve left it at that.

My fears had been brought to light a little before that in a letter I received from a friend of mine that I can still remember clearly word for word. In the letter he was responding to a very open and honest account of my own which related my latest experiments and experiences with raisins. In my correspondence to him I noted everything about how I felt. I expressed concern about the objectivity of my results due to my severe negative physical reaction towards raisins. I had always ignored the ethical question of whether it was right or wrong to pursue something that was so obviously harmful. I figured it was justifiable since any harm done was only to myself. However, it was always clear that I had every intention of continuing my work with the raisins.

So my friend wrote back to me, "There is something definitely wrong with your perception. On one hand you tell me you hate raisins and on the other you can't get enough of them. Your interest seems to be bordering on obsession and has long ago left the realm of scientific investigation. I suggest that if you have any interest in protecting yourself from becoming a raisin pervert you refrain from further contact with raisins. They harm you for reasons beyond your control. There is nothing you can do about it. To persist in your investigations will not only prove futile but you will destroy yourself irreparably."

            If I took nothing else from this letter, I had to ask myself what it was about raisins that kept me under such a powerful hold. Every night, for as long as I could remember, I had sat under a bright light with a compass set, a microscope and a collection of dissecting knives probing every wrinkle of every sort of raisin I could get my hands on.

 Once, I had a lucid dream about the same old friend who had written me the letter. I sat at my desk and he came to visit very impressively looking down at me from a great height. He sighed with a reluctant Socratic air and in a strangely familiar tone of resigned dutifulness he asked, "When you peel away the skin of a raisin what is left?" I didn't answer. "After you have sucked the taste from it, what is left?" My friend disappeared into a milky cloud, dissipating from my thoughts. Just before he had completely disappeared I heard him call out mockingly, "you're nuts my friend."

As I remembered this dream, back in my room now, I looked closer at my pile of golden raisins all grouped according to size, type, texture, moisture level etc. on my desk ready for observation. I reached across my desk and grabbed a razor blade that I preferred to use for bigger raisin operations. After careful deliberation, I chose the healthiest looking raisin and moved it carefully to the edge of my desk. I sat with it in perfect silence.

In front of me through the swirling dust, visible in the lighted pathway of my desk lamp, sat a plump wrinkly little body. Its sweat gleamed brightly in my eye, the shadows in its tiny valleys grew deeper and more mysterious the longer I gazed. As the rest of the room, the world in fact, dissolved around us, the raisin grew larger and its shadows darker. The helplessness I felt as my perception seemed to take on a life of its own turned to fear and the fear brought panic. It pounded on my chest relentlessly but I didn't dare move. The intensity of the moment grew brighter before me and the dust in the light gathered itself into a cottony meteor with a tail in tow. The manifestation or mental projection or hallucination whatever it was, was suddenly whisked away as if by some unfelt wind or some unheard music.

            I was alone in the light with the raisin. I remember feeling how beautiful it was and how similar we were. Its golden skin seemed to throb with life and its tiny voice chattered on as if it was just another day. I had only one thought and that was to let it be. But I couldn't resist picking it up and turning it over in my fingers, which only goes to show what a weak character I have. I couldn't think of anything else to do so I showered it with kisses.

            My memory tells me the raisin swelled to the size of a ping-pong ball. Then the next thing I remember was waking up face down on the desk, my fore head sticky with mashed raisin. I was filled with regret because it was then I realized that I would never find what I was looking for. The garden historians would never celebrate my discovery and honor me in their hard covered books.

            Its now a couple of years later and I want to tell you just what inspired me to write this brief account of my experience with raisins. After all, I haven't looked back at my notes or records during the raisin period for nearly 24 months. They are locked away in a box in my basement and I ignore their pleas for me to come look at them again. However, the other day I happened to overhear two raisins talking at a market. This is what I heard.

            "It's nice to be a raisin isn't it?" spoke one smug raisin to another in a whiney little voice. "We stick together and each one of us is different at the same time. We can always be ourselves without fear of being something else."

            Now perhaps someone might be offended and call me sentimental but I thought it was a very human thing for the dirty little critter to say.