Heaven, part 3 of 3

[Cont.]

I’ve never witnessed any gangrene amputations here. I can’t recall ever seeing any resident lacking any functioning organ. Everybody appears to be in the best of health, both physically and mentally. Sometimes one’s memories fade, but that’s only after millennia; and if you ever forget your name, it’s printed right on your ankle bracelet.

The Devil is locked inside of a big flame in front of City Hall, so you don’t need to fear his temptations.

I repeat: there is no sickness, pain, or death in Heaven. There is no torment. No shortness of time. You never hear anyone moaning in agony. Nobody is driven insane. No one ever loses a loved one. Everyone cares about everyone here. Everyone is your friend. It may sound trite to say that we’re all one happy family, but it’s true; and it’s extremely beautiful to experience. There are no lonely places; no secluded pools where one can drown.

And you can ride from any given place to any another, very fast, despite this being a sprawling country, by simply taking that train that I told you about.

There are no putrid smells because nothing is putrefying. Nothing is charred because nothing got burned. There are no dead bodies piled up everywhere, because nobody committed that many homicides. No airborne attackers because there’s no war. All the bombs and grenades are locked away, and only God has the key.

There are magic forces in Heaven, but they’re all good: none are evil curses. The pestilence is not contagious. There is no mind control. No invisible crises to panic about. No aerosolized viruses. No weaponized mosquitos. I’ve never seen anyone vomit. All the food is really good here. There’s no human waste in the streets; neither is there waste from horses or dogs. There are no bird droppings on the statues. No one has a shy bladder, or problems with incontinence.

All the faces are pretty. Nobody has enormous boils. People don’t suffer from dizziness. No bus ever hit anyone here: the drivers are conscientious. No one’s brain ever exploded with insect eggs that all hatched at once.

The faucets all dispense crystal clear water, not blood. There is no Frog Plague, at least not that I am aware of. So there’s no messy slime on the floor, to make you slip when you step out of the bath.

That scene from Psycho, the 1960 film where the woman steals cash from her employer and then stops at a secluded motel – that would never happen here.

If there were ever any metal killing chambers in Heaven, they have all been transformed into places where one can sit alone and drink. And they all have free wireless Internet now, so you can use a text-message interface to chat with other friendly strangers online.

One time, my friend and I got locked inside a metal killing chamber, and we thought that we were going to die, but we escaped. This was back on Earth.

Everyone is sympathetic here in Heaven. If a fellow citizen happens to notice that you are crying, that person will come over and cry with you, until you are done.

Every park bench is equipped with a button that you can push: this causes the ground in front of you to open up, and a platform rises on which are displayed various plastic models: these are old mannequins from storefront windows; they are dressed in styles from the past; you can ponder their appearance.

Somewhere in Heaven hangs a painting depicting that place on the grass where a fight once took place. (Since conflict is rare here, this is a cultural memento.)

The most you ever will need to wait for anything here is thirty minutes.

Cowboys from Hell came and took the baby from the manger. They tossed it into the well, but God got it back.

The screams here are always only screams of contentment.

§

The spiked walls that move around are for making large batches of pasta.

The water here in Heaven, as I keep mentioning, is crystal clear, so it does not irritate your eyes like the chlorinated swimming pools on Earth; therefore, your eyes will not sting after taking a dip. And there’s a lake-sized tub to swim in, which is not dangerous.

If you see people wearing hoods, it’s not because they are planning to steal from you: they are only protecting their head from the rain. And the rusted circular saws are for gardening.

There is a furnace for baking bread. The clamps are for securing lumber, when you need to saw logs.

The lever that you can pull causes a battering ram to appear. It weighs twelve metric tons. It is made of cold steel.

If you go into the wardrobe area of Heaven, you can get a cloak. Take it and wear it: it’s free. It can make you invisible.

You can get your teeth fixed, if they are less than perfect. Say they’re not white enough: you can get them whitened.

Heaven is great because you never run out of breath here. You can run as fast as your legs can carry you, for as long as you like, and you will not feel winded. There is a lot of farmland here.

Call for help, wherever you happen to be, and someone will fetch you. They will make sure that blood is not gushing out of your body. Even if you do not have a deep puncture wound from a spear, concerned nurses will attend to you. They will go so far as to put bandages on perfectly healthy skin, which has not a scratch on it, just to be doubly sure that you don’t bleed out.

If you ever close your eyes and hope to die, Jesus will talk you out of your dark mood. Even though he is Heaven’s king, he will take time out of his schedule to do this: always. You are his priority. (If the citizens are not happy, this reflects poorly on their leader.) Even if you speak so softly that no one can hear you, or if you pray only inside your mind, without moving your lips, the man will respond.

You never need to drag heavy chains around behind you in Heaven, because your shackles all get cut off with a hacksaw from the moment you enter. And the streets are all gold here, like I said.

You don’t need to step gingerly around suspicious looking places, such as spots of ground where straw or corn is scattered, because there are no boobytraps in Heaven. No one is trying to entangle you in a snare, or snap your neck.

§

It is true that the blood of Jesus Christ can be used as a cleaning agent, however strange that sounds. So there is a fountain of blood in the center of town, and women are encouraged to go there and bathe.

All the little children that went to Heaven are grown up now. There are no “minors” or underage persons here: everyone is mature.

Are there mice in heaven? Maybe so; but I’ve never seen any. If there are mice here, then they keep out of sight and never make any noise. I’ve never found any signs of them; there are no nests or pellets. Maybe they’re just extremely clean. They might have their own little corner of Heaven where they all live. I know there are elephants in the eastern region of Heaven. Maybe the mice are all out west. But I’m sure they wouldn’t want to share an afterlife with humans, anyway: they are as scared of us as we are of them – and they dislike the way we smell.

And I forgot to mention: You can use the crystal water of Heaven to remove stubborn stains.

A tornado comes through only once every ten years; that’s how safe this place is.

If anything gets atomized, God can put it back together. There are television screens located strategically throughout the public places, in case we all desire to watch a show together, such as a holiday special.

We sing a lot, too. There are real jingle bells here, shaken by real Santas. (“Santa” means “female saint from Spain or Italy.”) And reindeer are employed to deliver presents to good children on Christmas Eve. As I explained, these children have all entered adulthood, by now; but they are still good, thus they still receive their gifts.

Nothing ever becomes mangled or eradicated. Nothing ever goes rancid.

There is never a group-execution of thousands or millions of people. No one ever gets “bumped off.” (We no longer even use that phrase “bumped off” – I’m not sure what it means.) So, there are consistently low national carnage statistics.

We use fresh cloth to wrap cheese. Delivery trucks don’t smash into each other. There’s no mass hysteria. The sky never rains harpoons. There’s never a worldwide shortage of celery. No weeping, no gnashing of teeth. We always have enough hamburger meat to get us through the winter.

This is a place of revival and hope. It contains many brainwaves of multiple colors, if you could see them. A machine at the center of City Hall helps you breathe, and it makes sure that your heart keeps pumping. The neurotransmission rates are off the charts, here: everyone has a very sharp response to stimuli.

There’s a lot of fun to be had. If anyone goes braindead, you can just pull a cord, and the system resets: it’s like switching on a lightbulb.

Keep the doors shut, and all the rooms remain a comfortable temperature. There is a pyramid with a bed inside, where God sleeps. The only time anyone ever wakes up with a knife in their head is on Halloween, most likely as a prank.

Your bloodline never freezes inside your veins, or else that machine in City Hall will just thaw you out. Jesus also can help.

If a vehicle ever goes spinning out of control, there is a golden probe that levitates over and uses magnetism to soothe everything. And broken glass is swept up immediately. If stitches are ever removed from a cut, you can never tell where they were, because the flesh heals flawlessly. And if you happen to see snake-headed witches, they are always very nice; they have an excellent bedside manner.

Unlike on Earth, the labs in Heaven keep human eggs in their own container: they do not mix them with the fish eggs. This is a better way to do things. And they also use separate bottles for propane and Novocain.

The zombies who cannot resurrect are put to sleep in ornate caskets, and they are given a respectful burial. No one knows why zombies exist. If God can solve this enigma, he will bring them back from being undead (or half-dead, or whatever it is), and help them to walk and talk with suave normalcy again.

Here and there, you will find grapes in baskets. Take and eat them: that’s what they’re there for.

And unlike earthly justice, we do not practice capital punishment; in Heaven, God forgives without torture. So, that is not our King Jesus hanging on the cross: that is only a straw man, also known as a scarecrow. Crows are the only creatures prohibited from Heaven.

Heaven, Part 2

[Cont.]

When the cops find bodies here, it is never a bad thing. Everyone celebrates the return of a citizen whom we thought had wandered off and gotten lost. Heaven is big. There’s no danger, but we all like to stick together. It’s more comfortable that way. Humans are herd animals.

No more violent assaults ever happen, as they did so frequently on Earth. The only thing that gets shredded here is paper.

All evidence is always good: it always solves the crime; there’s no forged evidence or false evidence, or evidence that has been tampered with. That’s why all court cases are closed: they’ve all been solved.

There are no ditches where random murders occur. Here, murder is unheard of. And the ditches are kept clean; none of them spoil the look of the landscape.

There is no hellfire to ignite your body and then spread to your friends, family, and neighbors. The fires all come from God, so they are friendly. They do not want to destroy you; they want to warm you and give you light to read by. Reading is big here.

I once saw a heavenly resident lying flat on the ground, covered in what looked like blood. I screamed and fainted, but the fellow revived me and proved that I had jumped to a false conclusion: he explained that he was only bathing in a favorite type of red pastry filling, which on earth his parents had forbidden him to eat; so here in heaven he enjoys dousing himself in the substance and just lying on his back, with eyes closed and tongue protruding, basking in the scent and the feel of the dessert.

The cudgels and bludgeons and truncheons here are just for show. People carry them only for the sake of style, the way that folks will wear non-prescription spectacles, or use a cane not to help them walk but because it looks spiffy and is equipped with a hidden switchblade.

§

The landscape is beautiful in heaven. Everywhere, there is hot oozing steam. Instead of narrow mulch beds lining the foundation of houses, there are rivulets of obsidian.

No hard labor need be performed: all the construction work is accomplished; people can just relax and enjoy life. So, since there is no further use for metal hammers, they are displayed as decorative accents throughout the architecture, like the cudgels and truncheons.

There is a massive sign that says “No Exit,” which is seventeen miles high.

Anvils are positioned throughout the air. They hover; they pose no threat; they will not fall.

Here, everyone is modest and chaste, but not on account of any command, law, or social pressure; people are naturally inclined to abstain from lustful activity, and to sublimate what formerly were their sensual drives. Therefore, with the purest impulse from their own heart, everyone desires to maintain their virginity (which state is restored to each soul upon entering the premises).

And the garbage cans do not hold trash: they are where you deposit fruit that happens to fall from heaven’s trees.

§

Tattoos were popular on Earth, but here in Heavan they are almost never seen. If you want to display some imagery upon your person, you can just get a necklace that has a plate of gold attached, which you can wear at all times, and the gold can be engraved in any manner that you specify. You just work it out with the cherubs who do all the etchings. Heaven is home to many of the finest artists.

No soul slices her wrists here, even if she thinks that she cannot resist doing so. Each soul always finds the willpower to withstand the temptation.

There is a list of all the residents of Heaven, on a golden plaque.

None of the animals have rabies. There are no violent slashers. Nothing is destroyed by acid. Flying metal projectiles are not a common occurrence. Instead, ladies with children populate the environment.

Even the villains are kindhearted. Employers are generous: none of them cheat you out of your wages. There is a lot of vacation time.

§

If your feet become cold, you can put them into these slots that can be found positioned every few paces along the roads of gold, and they serve to warm you up. There’s probably a heater inside them, or something.

If your flesh does happen to get torn, or if any pain grows too intense, you can always call the king, whose name is Jesus, and he will heal you and administer anesthetics. And every soul is allotted forty-two wives, all thrilling and vivacious, to act as one’s personal friends and helpers.

You need never fear a tetanus infection, because there are no bacteria in Heaven. All the bacteria went to Hell.

You never see any sick rotting mutant undead limbs writhing on the dirty ground, so you never need to tie them down with ropes.

And the light is always provided by God or his Son; or the New Star that he created to preside over the Solar System, which replaced his old Sun. For this reason, it is always bright enough, even indoors, to do any type of painting or cinematography: there are no cramped rooms that are shallow and dim, or reeking dungeons or wet basements. Unless you specifically request the construction of a dark closet, so that you can have a place to develop your own photographs. God will do that. He wants you to be happy.

There are dry bones in the desert, but these are not from former residents: they were created as part of the décor; like dinosaur skeletons were, in the Earth. But the dinosaurs that you encounter here in Heaven are living creatures with souls and feelings: God made them to spice the place up. They will not harm you.

The politics are all fair. Things run well; nothing needs much improvement. All the fantasy is very natural, and miracles are normal here. Most of the arguments, if there are any, center on how we should go about filling any vacuums that exist. For there are still several cavities throughout Heaven. God and Jesus intend to fill them with new worlds.

[To be continued . . .]

Heaven

Dear diary,

One of the many things that I dislike about preachers, pastors, and priests is when they sermonize people with wretched descriptions of Hell, just to terrify the audience into submitting to The Church. “If you disobey our version of God,” these preachers say, “you will end up in Hell, where the temperature is always too hot, and everyone is thirsty, and no one is compassionate.”

Let me therefore counteract these horrible sermons about Hell with my own friendly sermon about Heaven.

A Friendly Sermon about Heaven
by Bryan Ray, Guru

Ah, Heaven. It is a place where you shall go after you die. Here is a description of what you will see there:

You will see living adults, old people, and teenagers. There will be crystal rivers sparkling over the walls, and elegantly shallow sheets of crystal water all over the floor: it will barely wet your feet. No shoes or sandals shall be necessary, because the ground is so soft. Even the roads are cushioned, and paved in gold.

Everyone will be alive. Nobody will die. The same number of people are present here every day. Nobody ever falls ill here: this is Heaven; and even if you wanted to leave, there’s not really anywhere else to go: you can flee to the neighboring place, but it’s all one country, as far as the eye can see; and it’s enjoyable everywhere. Nothing about Heaven is unpleasant.

Nobody screams or trembles here. People sing and sway.

And there is a train that you can ride. The experience of taking Heaven’s train differs in accord with your taste. For instance, if you enjoy the feelings associated with rollercoasters, then the train is like that type of transport; whereas, if you find the concept of wild rides frightening, then it’s just a regular monorail. Some people desire to travel at high speeds, to ascend great heights and then descend from them rapidly: for those people, the train acts like an amusement-park ride; its cars detach and spin around while the thing rushes through space and turns upside-down within loops and flies off the track. But for the people who, like myself, would rather travel at a moderate pace, and who prefer hills and valleys to mountains and freefalls, the train will bring you peacefully to your destination. And both versions of the train – crazy and sane – are one and the same: so the daring passengers do not need to take a separate vehicle; there is no segregation necessary; for the ride was engineered in a way that allows for any of its segments to be savage or tame at any given moment. This was accomplished by securing each of the train’s carriages with thick straps and cords to a complex framework of metal blades.

A minimum of paperwork is required upon arrival in Heaven: there is only one simple form that you need to fill out. Then you are ready to go. So, relax your mind, and get in line to ride the Loco Motion Railway Vehicle (that’s the name of the aforesaid train).

You hand your completed form to a person in a booth, and that person then pulls a switch. Now crystal water cascades from the wall, and you feel the desire to sway and sing.

Nobody ever gets chopped in two, like on Earth. Here in Heaven, cuts to the skin heal immediately, and they don’t hurt at all.

A man once showed up at Heaven’s gates with a metal shaft jabbed in the center his back, and they were able to get that out: no problem.

And there’s an incinerator that keeps everything clean.

Every citizen’s head has a nice look to it. Every torso is good-looking, as well. No one gets knifed or stabbed with any weapon. Like I explained, if you arrive from Earth with such a wound, you will receive treatment. I have never seen anything go wrong, here.

You have heard of graverobbers who steal the brains out of corpses? There are none of those in Heaven. There is no need for circumcision, either. And no man slices open his own guts, à la seppuku. That is unheard of.

Any bone problems that you may have suffered on Earth are now gone. Nobody’s spine ever cracks. All eyeballs are healthy. Vision is 20/20. No billowing flames, no burning flesh. Nobody cries.

Pain is very minimal: it only exists to compliment the great pleasures that abound here. Just a dash of discomfort to every flood of bliss. There’s this train that travels around, and you can ride it.

No one’s head is amputated. Nobody’s chest is caved in. Everyone is whole. There’s no nausea. No skeletons with their static horrible smiles.

And of course there are no graves. No prophets buried in caves, glowing and ready to come to life someday. Everyone here is already alive; we’ve all gone through Earth, and now we’re celebrating for the rest of eternity in Heaven. Job well done. Congratulations.

It is hot, but pleasantly so. Everything is brighter than the sun, but you grow accustomed to this very quickly. You can wear dark shades if you want, if you think that looks fashionable.

Should you see a father and son walking around who seem to be on fire, that is not a bad thing: the flames do not burn them; they are enjoying themselves. Don’t worry.

I haven’t encountered any rusty metal rat cages yet. There’s nothing to suck out your soul, or to clamp it down to beat it. Here, God is nice to everyone. God really does love you. There’s no filth, no blood; nothing you need to fear being exposed to. I don’t think anything is poisonous here.

On Earth, people can reach into your abdomen and grope and dig till they seize your heart. That does not happen in Heaven. In Heaven, your head stays in place, and your face does not melt off: you remain smiling.

[Here ends Part 1. To be continued . . .]

No Thanks

[I wrote nothing today, so I planned on reposting one of my old entries here, like I did the last couple days. But here’s the problem: I don’t like any of my old entries. When I re-read the last two, I only thought the first one was OK, and I cringed at the second. And now I just finished looking through all my other old T-day writings, and I was ashamed of each and every one. So then I thought I should re-share the multi-part Thanksgiving Essay that I wrote last year; but now I can’t stand that either. But, since I happen to have that essay still in front of me, I’ll copy selections from it; otherwise I’ll have nothing to show for this day, and only the wise are silent.]

Turkey

Imagine a turkey flying overhead. Now imagine eating this turkey for Thanksgiving.

One year, my friend Stegz invited me to celebrate the holiday with his family. His mom was preparing the meal, but her oven was not working right. She put the bird in there a whole day early. She ended up leaving it in the oven overnight. Then, when the actual day of Thanksgiving arrived, she set it on the serving platter: Its skin was whitish pink. So she melted some butter and, with a brush, painted it as a glaze all over the carcass: Now the bird looked golden brown. Then we said a prayer and began to eat. It tasted delicious, and after the meal we all felt fantastic.

---

Pilgrims

Now it’s time to talk about the pilgrims. They were the first mariners to bear offspring for America, which is India. A great spirit blew their ship to shore.

So they landed on the land. These folks were the ones I warned you about: They made the country great again, which caused the natives to applaud. Then an annual festival was invented by these voyagers. After befriending the former residents of India, they invited them to dine with them on their property. And, to this day, it remains a tradition to do as they did. The pilgrims all wore top hats with gold crucifixes, and black shirts with white frills.

---

Eating

Here I am, eating a turkey dinner. It is very satisfying. When I finish the meal, I push my chair back from the table and stand up.

By this time, I am snoring. I am dreaming of the T Day superhero Candied Yam Man. He has gigantic hands made of candied yams, and he’s chasing me all through the house.

Then I fall into a deeper sleep and dream of lambs leaping over a fence. Now one poor little lamb starts baaing in fear. Behold: Candied Yam Man is standing on the lamb.

“Candied Yam Man, stop!” I shout in my dream. “These lambs are only trying to help me sleep. Do not crush them beneath your boot.”

Then Candied Yam Man smiles and nods. He sings me a lullaby — its lyrics go:

I’m gonna dupe you hard,

Oh, I’m gonna dupe you so hard, sleepy boy.

In conclusion, I totally fell for his yammish charm: Now I’M the one being stepped on.

§

MORAL: Eating turkey makes you drowsy, which causes you to let down your guard and become vulnerable to attacks by heavy machinery this holiday season.

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Family

Thanksgiving centers upon family. You spend time with your grandparents, your uncles and aunts, your step-niece and her mom, your nephews and sister-in-law, your great-aunt Marie and her boyfriend Sylvester, your brother Todd and his friend Joey, your sister Gale, your cousin Charlie, your other cousin Scott, and your father who sells insurance for a living.

Love as well the sisters and brothers of your extended family. Praise God for cooking your food, and be thankful for the fact that you all are wearing clothing.

---

Thankfulness

Whoever you are, you should express that you are thankful.

There are many things to be thankful about. All of these things are blessings.

I presume that you’re not trapped in a building that’s on fire at the moment — that’s something to be thankful for.

Or you might be grilling burgers, etc.

---

The Citizens of India

Have you ever seen a man with hair on his head, who looks like he might be from some other country? If so, then you have seen a citizen of India.

When you see a citizen of India, say hello. And, if you notice any person ever attempting to drag a tree around in the desert, grab the other end and help to lift it.

One time, my old boss Ron took a trip to India. When Ron arrived, a tall man offered him a hand-rolled cigarette. Ron gave thanks and smoked the offering, which pleased him. Ron’s vision then blurred, and he began to feel an intense longing for more of whatever had been inside that cigarette.

---

Mashed Potatoes and Gravy

QUESTION: What type of food should you prepare for the Thanksgiving Holiday? ANSWER: This combo is considered extremely festive.

Now, when you pour the gravy on the taters, you might find that it spills down the sides. It may run down upon the plate.

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Dinner

Personally, I am against eating meals. Consuming food is the wrong way to seek health and happiness.

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Grandpa Takes His Teeth Out

I, for one, find Grandpa’s toothless state interesting. It brings up so many questions. How does he eat beef? How does he eat pork?

---

How to Cook Thanksgiving Turkey

First, you must find a big bowl. Then a chef should come into the room and begin to stir the ingredients together. Now you can leave and let the chef work. Go sit on a chair in the other part of the house and watch some television programs. When the meal is done, the chef will come and serve you a plate of chili.

---

How to Know if 

Your Thanksgiving Went Well

Now that the holiday has concluded, you might be wondering whether the event was successful.

First, examine your trousers: are you able to stand up in them? Do they seem dry? Then you’re good to go. You must have eaten some tasty substance.

Now walk down a hallway past your parents. Also be sure that your Uncle Steve is in the hall. Relationships are crucial.

Next, take a white towelette. If desired, use a baster to squirt a stream of turkey-dirt at the furniture, and then follow up afterwards. Just an idea for next year.

[Here ends “The Thanksgiving Essay.”]

---

An audio version of the above is available as a rap demo tape that my friend and I made when we were in high school. For the faint of heart.

Trying to figure out who is this one

[Again, I did not have time to write a new entry, so here is one that I wrote eight years ago: 24 NOV 2017 from Book 5 of my archive.]

Dear diary,

It reveals something about the soul of the writer: the decision to title an entry “Trying to figure out who I am,” rather than, say, “…who is this one.” I’m agitated, awake in the middle of the night, it’s half past three; and I’m trying to put my anxiety to good use. But is this good use?—penning these thoughts, in hopes of eventually sharing them as a blog post? Maybe introspective writing is a bigger waste of time than simply remaining abed and staring into darkness.

About eight hours from now, during the next full noon, my family will gather for the controversial holiday, which, in my youth, I was told to call “Thanksgiving”; then in my middle age, when I got fazed attempting to break from my Cocoon of Innocence (I’ve not yet managed to permeate the Realm of Experience), I was re-taught to call the day “Fourth Thursday of November,” because certain celebrators awoke and realized that there’s nothing to be thankful for, in the past or the present – and I concur. Plus, you gotta admit, “Fourth Thurs of Nov” does have a catchy ring to it.

But, in this entry, I wanted to try to figure out who I am; not appraise the holiday that occasioned such a dodge. So who am I? What is my purpose? These are questions that nag me, when I begin to worry about having to visit with family. What have I done with my life? Where have I been, and where am I going?

Is it necessary to travel right back to birth, or to early childhood? I’ve met more people who despise Sigmund Freud than who can tolerate him, so I fear a backlash if I admit that I love him; nevertheless, this is MY public-private diary, and I permit myself to speak about what seems important to me. Freud, in my misreading of his pataphysics, places great emphasis upon a person’s infancy—what I gather is that my life as a babe determined practically everything that followed. In short: I was doomed from the get-go. But what exactly happened that caused me to become this nervous wreck? I do not believe that I was abused in early childhood; I think that I’m just inherently more sensitive than the average soul, so treatment that would feel acceptable to another feels callous to me. But this leads to that old crux: Nature vs. Nurture: Was I simply born hypersensitive (I mean: is my fearfulness due to the makeup of my nervous system itself: the balance of chemicals, etc., which were the work of Luck), OR did womb-life and early childhood make me like this? — In other words: May I blame my parents?

All this hemming & hawing to say that I don’t remember the key parts of the story which fix my plot. If there’s a guardian daemon or over-soul who’s been monitoring my travesty supra birth-death, that fellow will be able point out the culprit; all we can say is it’s either God or my folks.

Perhaps is it telling, that, at this point in writing, my instinct before continuing was to research the definition of the word “trailer trash.” Noun; U.S.; informal, derogatory. “Poor lower-class white people typified as living in trailers.” I even like the fragment showing the term in action:

“…their parenting style has moved the family from upper-middle-class suburban to trailer trash in one generation.”

Why does a trailer have this negative connotation? And what’s the opposite of trash? — Is there such a thing as trailer gems . . . trailer assets . . . trailer treasure?

I was not born in a trailer park. But neither was I born in an “upper-middle-class suburb.” So where the heck was I born? I guess I’d call it a plain middle-class suburb – nothing upper about it.

But why do I immediately pounce on the notion of trailer trash when I want to begin to unearth my long-buried life-bone? It’s because I relate to this class of people. The author Cormac McCarthy set his early novel Child of God in Sevier County, Tennessee. If there truly are souls who live in the Appalachian Mountains, I’m sure they’re not much like the way that I myself imagine them; but I relate to my own idea of mountain-folk, the same way that I relate to the concept of Trailer Treasure. Those people are my true ancestors – somehow they’re in my blood. And when I read William Faulkner’s masterpiece As I Lay Dying, I recognize a slant of my own family’s essence. My family IS the Bundrens. And I am Darl. – I am also the “bitter, isolated, unnamed narrator” of Dostoyevsky’s Notes from Underground. (I’m always ashamed how much I relate to that guy.) And, although I venture this next assertion while still only partway through reading its source (therefore, take it with a wink), my kinfolk are true Karamazovs. I’m referring to Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s chief work, which coincidentally was also (I’ve heard) my pal Freud’s favorite novel: The Brothers Karamazov.

Listing literature. No, I’m not getting sidetracked from the search for myself: it’s insightful to note the depths that I must plumb to set the mood . . . to find a soil to produce a life like mine.

I’ve never researched my genealogy, family tree, ancestral bloodline or history – I’m half afraid what I will find, and I also like to guess what might’ve been; whereas, if I ever discover the facts, I’ll lose the freedom to wonder with such abandon. As it is, I imagine that I hail from THE MONSTERS OF THE DEEP. Yet I don’t envision my lineage this way because I favor vulgarity: on the contrary, transcendence is my goal, and not even the sky’s the limit; but my aspirations are so beyond the beyond that it’s vitally necessary for me to offset my superego’s demands with self-congratulations; and to make even a passable flower appears the highest triumph if one has stemmed from ignoble roots.

But what is my flower? And is it passable? These aspects of my life I can address without conjecture, because I rough-hewed them. (Probably I did not rough-hew them in actual fact but only felt as though I was rough-hewing them.) For a while, I assumed my life’s flower-work was two strange blossoms: the audio works that I made, and the text works that I made. But now I am not sure that I have managed to flower at all. I don’t mean this in a sulky way; I don’t say this to be self-deprecatory, in hopes of receiving a compliment, like if I were to murmur “I’m ugly,” and you reply, “No, Bryan, you’re pretty.” I know that I’m pretty. I mean, I’m physically unattractive (permit me this truth), but my spirit is gorgeous.

But that’s only the case if WILLPOWER is beautiful. (I love but disbelieve the quote from Keats’ “Ode on a Grecian Urn”: Beauty is truth, truth beauty; and now I puzzle over whether power might be beautiful, or beauty powerful.) Because I’m strong in will, no doubt, yet my spirit lacks grace. It wants the charm that comes from an upper-class upbringing. Devoid of all “up-” words, I’m intrinsically DOWN. I have a trailer-trash soul. I am the spirit of the Appalachian Mountains . . . a real mountain-man . . . a mountaineer.

Is all this true? No, for my soul is not the low thing that my body was doomed to be. (I wish I were better at distinguishing “soul” from “spirit”—I need to work on keeping those terms separate and more clearly defined; I should not use them as synonyms: I like the idea that the soul is mortal and was fashioned by the demiurge Ialdabaoth, the bungling creator of our broken world who is also known as Jehovah; and this soul is a flawed copy of the true immortal pearl or spark of the Ineffable, known as Endlessness, the alien deity who encompasses the entirety and of whose “mind” Jehovah is but an erroneous thot.)

But it rings true to me when I say that I’m DOWN. Anyone who’s known me since preschool can vouch for my negative bent. Why does everything seem such a washout to me? Maybe this bad attitude is proof of my infancy having been very good. TOO good to last. Yes, how else would the whole farce that follows acquire such a gloomy hue?

Or maybe I just miss the womb. Why wouldn’t we? It’s like hovering in a soft, warm spaceship with red-draped interior. You’ve got a plug plugged into your stomach which supplies all your nourishment: you’ve got no responsibilities but to pretend to press buttons, pull levers, and turn the knobs of your ship’s control panel, with your eyes closed, dreaming the phantasmagoric dreams of the fetus. And some fetuses even get cocaine or alcohol, free of charge. But I wasn’t so lucky: My owner fed me well. And when I got born I cried.

What’s being born like? Is it like crash-landing your rocket? I don’t think so: for what would the ruined casing be – the placenta? I think a vehicle demolition in outer space is too jagged & rigid to represent live birth. No, being born is like nothing so much as dying. Enduring the shock of expiry when you least expect it: THAT’s like birth. It’s not even close to waking from a dreamless sleep: that’s more like imagining; for fancies enter & leave the imagination effortlessly, they appear & disappear without consequence; & no pain, no gain: which is why it only counts if you bring your thoughts to term, that is: get them out into the world, lure others to entertain them in their own mind – an uncommunicated thought is a dead thought; tho thoughts cannot ever be truly communicated: one can only, as it were, coax other woodlanders to play in a comparable grotto; provoke them to decree the building of a similar pleasure-dome. Yes, being born is unlike waking from dreamless sleep; but it is a bit like interrupting a bout of somnambulism: for, in that case, you’re terrified; suddenly everything’s changed, everything’s inexplicable and you must immediately LEARN FAST how to nurse or be nursed.

Joys impregnate. Sorrows bring forth.

That’s another of William Blake’s “Proverbs of Hell”; it came to mind because I’m talking about womb-life and live-birth. But the act of impregnation precedes even the womb. – Conception. To conceive. I’m brainstorming backwards now. I intended to give a hard look to my life after adolescence, because that’s what worries me so much when the holy days strike; but fear of the task at hand is manifest in the way I’m retreating from earliest childhood back through birth before the time of impregnation. Back to the days when I was dead. – Is that the right way to put it? How would it be more accurate to say that I was NOT dead? If I wasn’t dead, what was I? Surely not alive, because . . . Well, maybe alive, but not in control. And yet, am I in control at present? Am I as aware of myself now, as I was aware of myself when I was King Josiah? An asshole I was then: forgive me, for I knew not what I was doing. (II Kings 22-23) And yet, in a sense, at present, I am not aware that I was King Josiah; but neither will I be aware that I was once Bryan Ray, when I have become the Beast out of the Sea (Revelation 13:1).

P.S.

I got torn away from this entry after writing the last sentence above. The holiday attacked. (Again, I wish my writing had ended in mid-word, rather than after a full stop, so as to emphasize that it’s unfinished.) I have now returned only to add this postscript.

Bitter thoughts aiming to be better

[I did not have time to write a new entry today, so here is one that I wrote nine years ago: 20 NOV 2016 from Book 3 of my archive.]

Dear diary,

I’ve been told that the second Monday in October is a national Canadian holiday known as Thanksgiving. The U.S. uses a different date: the fourth Thursday of November. And then comes Christmas, which is a contraction of the phrase “Christ’s Mass.” That’s on December 25. When I was young, my parents dragged me with them to church, but it was a Protestant sect whose weekly meetings were called “services” not “masses”; so…

And my mom and sister came to my house last night: they normally don’t visit except on or around the major holidays, so it’s a big deal whenever I see them. They wanted to know if we could all get together next Sunday; that’s why I researched the facts about the official dates of this atrocious festival.

I am personally more comfortable complaining than giving thanks. What is there to be thankful for? I hate when people say: “I’m thankful to be alive.” I answer, with Whitman: “it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.” (‘Song of Myself’ sec. 7.) Also I think of Satan: “Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell…” (Paradise Lost, Book 4.) Imagine being half Whitman, half Satan—that’d be my dream job.

“And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good.” (Genesis 1:31.) By the time I was seven, I saw all of reality as very bad. Everything is dismal to me. Yet I’ve not even suffered any misfortune (beyond birth) that would give me a right to be so rancorous. It just comes natural: I resent all the upkeep and requirements and demands of life. Why must even the healthiest body compulsively breathe, periodically eat, frequently drink – and not vodka but disgusting fresh water – plus exercise and tend some sort of social relation? Who signed up for this?

And if the U.S. Constitution is so darn perfect, then why did it ever have to be amended? At this moment in time, I count twenty-seven amendments. That’s exactly why it’s perfect: because it admits that it is flawed and in need of change. Why don’t we change it some more?

But let’s say that an amendment is ratified which says: “The right of the citizens of the United States to enter Heaven after death shall not be denied by God or his henchman Paul. Congress shall have power to enforce this article by appropriate legislation.” Would this improve our afterlife one iota? I guess it’s up to the courts.

Most optimistic people vex me, but I don’t like the version of self that I’ve given here… I want to brighten my mood…

Let me say one pleasant thing about gullible people. Their enthusiasm is sometimes infectious, which can be a good thing. You might meet a wide-eyed political hack this afternoon, and he might try to hard-sell you on his favored candidate. Sublimate your annoyance: the transfer of energy that occurred during this affront can be employed to power your body to vacuum your basement – that’s an uplifting thought.

But now let’s say that your boss tries to chat with you as a pal. Who cares whether or not you agree with her assertion? She claims that an ancient sage from her culture’s mythology got re-embodied today as a popular senator. This is not even her own idea: she admits that she was taught it by her yoga coach. You could say it’s true; you could say it’s untrue; you could hold your peace… Might any course matter? And isn’t there something beautiful about reaching an agreement?

If I were a religious leader, and I encountered a rival cult whose members pressured me to join them, I’d convert without a qualm. Even if their cult had the ugliest rituals and horribly worded scripture, I would embrace it: I’d set the example and tell my adherents to follow suit. Why would I do this? I don’t know – I hadn’t drawn up any plan: I just acted instinctively. I guess I’d like to set myself apart from the other religious leaders, who clutch to their convictions and refuse to meet new deities.

But how do you know whether I am sincere in my conversion? Maybe I am only pretending. For if you pay me to join your congregation, I’ll gladly accept. If I were attractive enough to be a church prostitute, I’d do that too. But I despise working for an honest day’s wages. I’m sick of all those biblical stories about workers in the field. It doesn’t make sense, in this day of computer phones and fake leather, to speak of angels as reapers. Who among the multitude can claim an expertise in agriculture?

Just think about the time when the huge machines appeared on the horizon and bamboozled the life of untold small-farm laborers.

And is it rude to consider that Jesus, like so many others, got killed unjustly; yet also, like so many others, he is still plain dead? I wish they’d had phone cameras back in the day. Yet I only desire that we dispense with the gospel of his resurrection because I admire the bulk of his teaching, the significance of which gets eclipsed if the event of prime importance is his death. I mean, if all that matters is that “he shed his blood for us,” then… (Haven’t I said all this before? It sounds like a familiar track on my broken record.)

And I’ve heard people refer to certain youths of the generation that’s currently entering the workforce as “millennials.” What a nice name. I hope this group has a pleasant life, and that they’re not bogged down with many problems.

Thots about the Bible’s story, life, God, & more

Dear diary,

Alright, so, let me get this straight. God created the world. All the animals were good, and the first two humans were good; and they lived with God in his garden. Then God said: “You can eat from every tree except for this one.” And when the humans ate from the forbidden tree, God kicked them out of the garden. So, the humans had to learn to survive elsewhere. The first two humans bore children in exile, and those children bore children. Soon the earth was populated by multitudes of humans. God then caused water to flood the earth, killing all life, except one pair from each animal species, and one family of humans. The animals and humans then began to bear young, and those young bore young, just like before, until there were multitudes populating the earth again. Now, out of all these multitudes, yet again God chose to give extra care to one man’s family. But despite his favoritism, God allowed this man’s family to end up moving to, and eventually being oppressed by, that era’s empire. Once the oppression reached a maximum level, God intervened to rescue his chosen group from the empire. The favored family had now multiplied to the size of a nation. God led them out of the empire and into his residence. God no longer lived in the garden from the beginning; he now was staying on a hill in the wilderness. The favored nation remained with God for a while at his hill; then God took them wandering around the wilderness. Finally, God told this favored nation that he shall cause them to reside in the fertile lands nearby. These lands were already inhabited by other nations. The favored nation then fought and settled various places. Some time later, a new empire arose and conquered the favored nation, taking them captive. A remnant of the favored nation eventually returned to resettle a small part of their former land; but most of the favored nation remained in captivity, in the new empire.

And that’s where the story stops; God just sort of fades away, although people still fight about him.

If you were a member of that favored nation, would you . . .

If you were a member of one of the other nations, what story would you tell about your . . .

Is there a moral? Is the story finished, or is it currently undergoing an intermission, or was there never really a story to begin with?

Is God for or against empire? Some believe that when a man acquires riches, it means that God has blessed that man. An empire is a wealthy nation: does this wealth indicate God’s favor? If not, then how can one tell if one’s riches are God-given or God-defiant?

When God favors you, you end up enslaved. When God is against you, you enjoy great wealth and power, and you get to enslave God’s favored nation. Your power subsists for lengthy spans of time, while God slowly develops a plan to bring you down. And God’s plans never fully play out: God’s aims are never quite seen through to the end: there is never a satisfying conclusion to God’s great claims. The favored nation never enjoys a moment when it can say “Now we have officially taken root in the land that God promised us.” Instead, while the favored nation is working on settling the final portions of this Promised Land, some neighboring nation breaks them up, and the current empire drags them away.

People from the favored nation wonder what the cause of their downfall was. Many of their priests say: “Our favored nation got defeated because we displeased God; God was displeased when we worshiped him by other names and titles than those names and titles that our own priestly sect approves; and God was angered when he saw his favored nation performing rituals that our own priestly sect did not authorize. Our favored nation would never have been taken into captivity, if the population had only worshiped God in the ways that our own priestly sect advises.”

Now consider the people from those nations that were not originally favored by this God. Some of these previously unfavored people have come to believe that that same God changed his mind and presently favors new groups. Or they argue that this God never intended to favor only one ethnicity, but that he always meant to favor whoever would listen to him and believe his message and follow his ways. (What is this God’s message? What are his ways? What has he said? – And who can anyone trust to answer these questions?)

So now we have the current era’s empire boasting of having procured this God’s favor. And it’s hard to argue against this idea, because if God does not favor the present empire, then why does he permit it to be so rich and powerful? Will God rescue the empire’s workforce ever again? Or has God switched teams: is he now on the side of the masters, against the slaves? Can God lie? What would happen if God tried to lie to us, would his conscience give him a little 9-volt shock?

And what exactly is God’s name? What is his nature and character? Some believe that this God who plays favorites had a son. Some say the son and the father are the same person. Others believe that the father is the enemy and his son is the savior. Yet others say that only the original God is worthy of worship, and the rumor that he fathered a son is blasphemous. Some praise the mother of this God more than the God himself or the couple’s son. A few believe only in the ghost of this God.

Yahweh is a proper name. Jesus is a proper name. Lord is a title. Yahweh is called Lord. People call Jesus Lord. But Christians give me strange reactions when I ask them “Is Yahweh Jesus?” (I should have defined that term “Christian” very carefully before employing it here. Please forgive this. And, by the way, the word Baal means Lord, as well.)

Why is it troublesome to say that Jesus is Yahweh? Because Christians are uneasy about Yahweh’s Law; the Christian argument is that Jesus died to free believers from Yahweh’s Law; so, if Jesus is Yahweh, then we have the Law being established by Jesus on Mount Sinai, and then later we have the same Jesus dying on the cross to save people from the power of his own Law: it makes one ask: “Why not just abstain from establishing the Law, and simply teach the beatitudes in the first place? Deliver your ‘Sermon on the Mount’ straight from Sinai.” So, it’s easier to believe in Jesus if you don’t know much about Yahweh.

But does anyone truly care about any of this? I think that people just believe in whatever helps get them through their day. And what’s wrong with that? I’m wondering now: Why is each day so difficult to get through? There have been so many days that have passed, since the invention of the world: why haven’t we figured out how to make days more easily passable? Why does each day contain a moat filled with alligators? Why do sinister agents creep around in the shadows, following us everywhere we go? How come someone is always shooting bullets at the place where we are hiding?

I wish that one could exit the wheel of existence by simply refusing to procreate. Instead, one is dragged back and forced to live here again, no matter what one has done. (Is that the truth?) In fact, simply because I dreamt up this diary entry, I think I should be released from the nightmare of rebirth. But it doesn’t work like that. (Unless it does.)

The rules are: if you father five children, you must be reincarnated five times. So, at some point in my past existences, I racked up a high score of offspring; therefore, I must endure many childless existences, to offset these indiscretions. I probably have thousands of lives left; all during the worst times in history, too. That’s just my luck.

So, what will happen is that, when I die, I’ll find myself thrown back into the world in an even worse situation than the life that I just lived. I’ll be forced to feel extreme hot and extreme cold, all sorts of pain, hunger, humiliation. When still an infant, the doctors will give me countless injections; they’ll probably install a computer chip in my soul. And each new set of parents will teach me Christianity all over again, and I’ll always believe it; then, halfway through my life, I’ll figure out that this religion is a sham, but at that point, the truth will do me no good: it will come too late to set me free.

Shall God be aware of this? Does God ever tire of watching the same old story? (Maybe, to God, every story is new: “I’ve never seen anyone descend into misery quite like that,” God probably says.)

I wish there truly were a God, and I wish that he would desire for all his creatures to live a good life. But even if there is a God who exists somewhere, we humans are probably more like insects to him than friends or even house-pets. When I saw a big black spider in the bathroom this morning, my instinct was to crush him under my shoe; and then, far from feeling remorse about this murder, I was only annoyed that his guts left such a smear upon the floor tiles. That will be the scene, if I meet God. God will be horrified at Bryan. “How did this get into paradise?”

But I will not be squished so easily. I will dash about and skulk in the shadows, and set booby traps for the angels, and toss rocks at God. And, again, I’ll feel no remorse when I look around at the aftermath of the battle, and see that eternity’s crystal streams have become rivers of blood, because God and all his armies are now dead corpses; I’ll only be irked that I now need to begin studying classical economics, so that I can implement a system to govern heaven compassionately this time.

Sequence of sentiments

Dear diary,

Do you remember that one summer, back when the sun really used to shine? DJ Jazzy Jeff was playing records in the park, and we were all dancing, clad in our best, having a barbecue with our families. All our aunts and cousins were there, our own grandparents as well as the grandparents of other ethnic groups. Nobody else parties quite like our ethnic group does in the summertime. Come, sit down on the blanket with us, and eat some herring. We’re all shouting at the top of our lungs, having fun. “Mass hypnosis!” That’s the chorus that we keep chanting. Come, sit, eat some herring with us. We play volleyball with a net, using a big red beach ball. Ladies in swimsuits are posing stiffly. There is a car idling in the woods; people are sitting on top of it, to feel the vibrations of its motor. Basic summertime party stuff. Changing our chant to “Even so, come, Godot!” Then singing the hymn “Let Us Do the Jerk Dance.” Yes, party in the summer when it’s hot. Make sure to rub ice on your body, to help yourself cool down. Come over to the place where all the people are dancing, dressed to the nines, and do The Jerk; then do The Human Claw Maneuver. Those are two good dances to do. Strech your arms way up high. Dance and boogie all night until you’re raw, and you wake up sore with red marks from doing The Human Claw New Dance. Then join the rest of us in the forest to watch a few reruns of The Facts of Life (1979). Also zoom over to meet Chuck Woolery, who was there that summer.

2

Let’s go out to town, hit the block and scope for ladies. Let’s look for harlots. We’ll bring our housecats with us. We find a party that is pumping. Everybody is upside-down. The music is loud. DJ Jazzy Jeff is here again. He calls you by the true name of your spirit: Leinenkugel’s Jägermeister Goldschläger Smirnoff. Yeah, now we are truly partying. Making a noise like that of a lawnmower. “I wanna sell you my used car,” I explain to Jazzy Jeff. But you tug my sleeve and say: “It’s 11:30, Bry, let us keep searching around for what we have been seeking.” So we head downtown to see if there are more bars open or any parties in that area. We dine at a restaurant that has a Mexican name, which translates as “Big Taco Fine Mom Lady.” We hop on the dance floor and go back and forth like a yo-yo, and up and down like Satan roaming the earth. “Wake me up when it’s time to go,” I say to Jazzy Jeff, who decided to trail us on behalf of the government. Now the party is doubly jumping. The bass is throbbing, making me feel really happy. All the ladies are dancing, doing backspins and running away from the stress of their daily lives. Our whole gang has sopping wet hairstyles. We tease the fellas because their ladies all abandoned them to join our organization.

3

I hate people who don’t believe in science. I believe in science with my whole heart. My colleagues and I are the scientists of our dominion. We measure everything, make hypotheses, record our guesses in notebooks, track the data, and clean up the mess. Who tipped over my cup of acid? Now all the figures that I was penciling are smeared. How can I make my computations now? Blast it all. And who left my Bunsen burner burning? Why is the rodent wheel still spinning? Where are all the control-group rats? Why is there a tail on that human skeleton? Look at this petri dish: it is filthy. All the bacteria grew up; they’re now thriving, well-adjusted members of society.

4

What is slippery when wet and rather cozy, popping its head up out the manhole and playing superfast on the ukulele? Keep this riddle handy; do not lose it.

Where is the riddle I told you to keep? Damn, you lost it? OK.

5

You have only one dollar, but I have twenty-nine billion dollars. I made my fortune selling lemonade-flavored ice, because I am a yellow-eyed werewolf. My nametag says that I’m tame, but I bite anything I see. So, keep away from me: I’m dishonest. I’ll steal your bicycle and then lie, and watch you walk away with tears dripping from your face. No apology letter from me. I will accuse you of being a traitor, and then steal your last dollar from you. Gimme that. I’ll see you later in church.

Hashbrowns are not brownies with hash in them. I just learned that. You and your friends are studying to become sword swallowers in the circus. Good luck. You hear that sizzling sound? That’s some burgers on the grill. I’m getting ready to watch TV, because my show is on now. Here it is: A mysterious man wearing black gloves is tearing up an important document. When I say “my show,” I don’t mean simply that it’s a show I like to watch: I mean that I am the star actor. I’m the man with the black-gloved hands, who is tearing up your wife’s marriage certificate. My acting style is vicious. Between takes they keep me in a harness. Many viewers live vicariously through my character. The audience loves to hear me say my catchphrase to my enemies whenever I best them: “This is a free country, but not that free.”

In this episode, I am hunting down the thief who has been stealing all the prosthetic limbs. I’m wearing a pure metal suit, walking through storefronts to chase this guy, the screen is an explosion glittering with shards of broken glass, and there are people in the background partying and having a good time in the summer, signifying that my character leaves all paradigms destroyed: he shatters innocence. You must be kidding, if you suggested just now that I am a man who will back down from the challenge of stopping the progress of immorality.

6

Then, after being fired from the police force, my partner and I become bigtime party-ruiners, and we go around screwing up all good plans. We transform into underachievers. “I’m so thirsty for action,” I confess to my partner, at the beginning of the show, after our supervisor has relegated us to working in the office, just prior to firing us, “I could drink a whole sea of deeds.” Then I pour lotion over all the office supplies, which makes the boss finally let us go.

Today, we’re enjoying a chase scene. “I’m right behind you,” I announce into my walkie-talkie car-radio to the vehicle that is speeding in front of us, as my partner and I race after them at high speed, deftly crossing and recrossing over the double yellow lines of the road, to avoid hitting the men wearing two-person deer costumes, geese costumes, racoon costumes, turtle costumes, and other varieties of men sporting two-person wildlife outfits that come wandering out in the night.

“Why are we in such hot pursuit of this individual?” asks my partner from the passenger seat, between sips of his coffee.

“Because he’s the monster on the ‘Wanted’ poster who is looking at you, pointing his finger at you, with a scowl, saying: ‘I want YOU’.”

My partner gasps and chokes on his beverage when he hears this: he loses his grip on the white Styrofoam cup and spills the hot black coffee all over his lap. He unlocks his passenger side door and opens it while the car is still speeding down the road at over one hundred miles per hour. He unlatches his police boots and slips into some more comfortable streetwalking shoes.

Wandering thots: offence & defense, armed & unarmed, trustworthiness of law codes & gods

Dear diary,

Two monarchs meet; they sit down to play a game of chess. Each takes a turn, moves a piece. Then one of these monarchs draws his scimitar and slays the other monarch. Was this a legal move? Did the killer have a right to perform this action?

Today I heard a man at the hardware store say: “This country spends too much money on defense.” He added: “We should cut the defense budget down to almost nothing; all we should keep is our nuclear arsenal.” Since I was in the same aisle as this man (we were both browsing the store’s array of “soft hammers”: those tools which appear to be made of steel but are actually foam – they are often used in slapstick routines), I asked this man why not eliminate even our nukes. And he replied: “The major nations all need to have nuclear weapons, to keep the world safe.”

Then I asked: “Am I wrong to think of nuclear bombs as dangerous?” The man laughed and said: “Of course not; but the world is safer with the big nations being armed in this way, because, when all the major players have the ability to annihilate each other, it means that none of them shall be able to use these weapons without destroying the whole world, which none of them truly wish to do.”

I pretended like this made sense to me, just to get out of the conversation; then I walked away, and browsed the liquid swords.

I don’t believe that the “major players” are averse to destroying the world. I’m not sure why they haven’t done it yet.

If one of the nations that has nukes were to get rid of all its weapons, including the nukes, then what would happen? Would the other nuclear-armed nations act like a guy with a gun and say to the unarmed nation: “Do this and that, or I’ll shoot you”? What would the nuke nations want the non-nuke nation to do, anyway? “Give us all your people; we will force them to be servants of our own populace.” Would we United Statesians all truly be shipped over to Russia and China? Would we truly be forced to wash their dishes, and care for their house-pets, and trim their shrubbery, and iron their trousers, and drive their children to school, and prepare healthy meals for their family picnic, and become big with child by the master’s son, and work the projector on movie nights?

If the entire population of the U.S. is shipped overseas to be servants of foreign nations, just because those nations kept their nukes when we got rid of ours, then who will live in this land that we left behind? Will it just be left unoccupied? Will the ghosts of the previous owners reclaim it? Or will the foreign nations move in and make it their own? Does anyone really want to live in Minnesota? – I would like to try this experiment in nuclear disarmament, just to see how things turn out.

Now imagine a guy who buys more than fifty guns and keeps them all in the trunk of his car. I find this guy to be a suspicious character. Why do you need all those lethal weapons, if you’re not planning on using them?

But people will say: “If you get rid of all the weapons in your trunk, then just one man with a gun will be able to take you prisoner.” So it’s like the nuclear argument all over again. Everyone needs to remain a deadly threat, for the sake of love and happiness. Then, when someone sticks you up in a parking lot, you can say to them: “One moment, please; I just need to unlock the trunk of my car, for I have an impressive display of weaponry that I believe will make you rethink your desperate act.”

So, everyone in the Wild West remains armed to the teeth. Some of the people who are pleased with this scenario, I presume, are the manufacturers of bullets and guns. I guess that’s the best thing to be: an arms dealer. Because everyone’s so scared, and the world is so violent, you’re guaranteed to have continued sales. Plus, nobody ever shoots arms dealers; the people who get shot are always innocent mothers and children, and unarmed peacemakers. So if I were to give a young lad or lass advice about finding a career, I’d say: go into the mass-murder business.

I find it odd that all the citizens of the United States believe in the God of the Hebrew Bible, but they do not use the Law Code that this God authored in that same Holy Scripture. They use the U.S. Law Code instead. Is the U.S. Law Code better than God’s Law Code? Maybe it’s not, but people just keep using it, despite its inferiority, for the same reason that the U.S. keeps using the British imperial system of measurements instead of switching to the divine metric system.

Or maybe the U.S. Code is truly the best; maybe it was also authored by the finger of God and handed down from a mountaintop amid thunder and lightning. I wish there were a way of testing the authenticity of these types of claims. Wouldn’t it be interesting if, for instance, Joseph Smith’s writings all came back from the lab having tested positive for holiness? What would the sects that reject Smith think about that? I suppose they would just question the reliability of the lab or the science behind the testing. So then we would need a system of verification for systems of verification. I’d be willing to create such a thing. But I wouldn’t do it for free.

If any deity from any religion were to show up on Earth and do miracles for us, who wouldn’t believe in him or her? I suppose Christians would say: “But this is probably the Devil trying to trick us.” And if the deity came here dressed as the Church’s Savior, looking exactly like Jesus, with a beard and the correct hairstyle, etc., the same Christians would say: “This is probably the Antichrist sent by the Devil to deceive us. As it is written (2nd Corinthians 11:13-14), ‘For such are false apostles, deceitful workers, transforming themselves into the apostles of Christ. And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light.’” So is there any deity that the Christians will accept? Even Jesus himself can’t convince them that he’s not the Devil. Yet it does not work the other way; I mean, if the Devil himself shows up, the Christians aren’t going to say: “Here is the True God; he only looks evil because the Devil is trying to beguile us into rejecting our Creator; but once we embrace him, it will be like when the princess kisses the frog that turns into a prince.”

I think, however, that every group other than Christians will accept any deity that makes an appearance. I know that I will. Or even if an alien species shows up, and they seem sort of like humans; maybe they are in some ways better and yet in other ways worse; I will welcome them, as long as they treat us kindly. So it’s in their interest to avoid slaying us; for if they slay us all, then I won’t bow to them.

Morningthots on jobs, leading to an idea for a film

Dear diary,

I have loathed every job I’ve ever had. “Job” meaning whatever someone was willing to pay me to do. Some people have careers they love; I am happy for them. But I associate all paid labor with misery.

Prostitution is the best work for wages. You get paid to experience pleasure with loved ones. What could be better than that? Say you’re a carpenter: would you rather cut wood than bask in bliss with a lover? Computer programmers: would you rather just sit there and type, staring at a buzzing screen all day, than kiss and cuddle with the one you love?

I’m aware of the flaw in my argument. There’s one detail that I’m failing to take into account: A prostitute does not simply receive money for holding hands with a soul-mate at the beach. The downside of prostitution is that one must hold hands with any paying customer. So, if your price is twenty caesars, then anyone who offers you that much cash can take your hand and stroll the beach with you, in the moonlight. And then if your client pays another five caesars, she can hug you.

Also, when your date is over, you cannot just return to your manor house, pour yourself a cocktail, sit in a lawn chair, and watch the cattle graze. No, the instant Paying Customer A says goodbye, Paying Customer B says hello. And you must now go dine with that person, and pretend to enjoy her conversation. After watching the sun go down with Customer B, she hugs you (having paid for that service) and retires to her cabin; then Client C steps forward, being at the front of the line of customers, and offers her twenty-five caesars; now you must watch the sun go down with her as well, and engage in hugging once again, regardless of whether these actions appeal to you at the moment. You must always act with warmth and kind-heartedness; you must never admit that you would rather not enjoy another candlelight dinner.

One more career that seems good when you daydream about it, but then proves bad when you experience its reality, is the position of Federal Judge. One would think that this would be great fun: The assumption is that you get to walk around your city righting wrongs and rescuing widows and orphans. But what really happens is that criminals are constantly shooting at you with their firearms. And you fire back: you aim for the tires of their getaway vehicle, but you end up hitting their spouse, who’s not even a criminal: she turns out to be very beautiful; too bad she’s a corpse. So now you have that on your conscience. The pay is good, though: your annual salary is three hundred and fifty thousand caesars, plus bribes. But you must have a tough skin, and do lots of weight training. I only lasted twenty-two years.

The best job of all? Is there one? Might there exist a career that even surpasses its common daydream? I say there is. At first glance, it resembles prostitution, but when you dive into it and really get going, it’s a whole different ballgame. I’m talking about the career of Adulteress with a Bank Manager. You work as a beautiful woman who commits adultery with the manager of a bank. Your bank manager is, of course, married, and he does not get along with his plain-looking wife. She is pregnant, to boot. This renders her ornerier than usual, and her figure cannot hold a candle to yours. The pay is great: there is no fixed salary, because the position is unofficial; the bank manager gives you however much cash you desire, whenever you ask for it. Money is not hard to come by, for bank managers, because they have access to all the riches in the universe – huge vaults filled with gold coins and stacks of paper currency are within arm’s reach of any bank manager’s office desk, and he is the only soul who knows the safe’s combination. Or if a key is required, then he has that key. So you sleep with this guy in a motel, any time you like (it’s up to you, not him: you’re an adulteress, not a prostitute), and you get the pleasures of sensual intimacy PLUS however much wealth you want PLUS good conversation. For every bank manager is well-educated, gentle-mannered, and handsome. And his wife never finds out about your affair, because she is preoccupied with planning for the birth of their baby. It’s a perfect situation. This is the career path that I recommend.

Film Idea

I would like to watch a whole movie about a bank manager pursuing the joys of adultery. Most feature-length motion pictures will only include a few scenes, at the most, on this subject: No artist ever dares to make the bank manager’s adulterous activity the story’s main focus; but that should be the whole adventure.

The film should begin with the manager at his bank, sitting at his computer and talking with the beautiful woman who shall eventually become his paramour. Perhaps she has scheduled this appointment to set up a checking account; or perhaps she already possesses several accounts and thus is here to transfer funds from one to another – it doesn’t really matter why the bank’s manager is meeting with this woman: you just need a clear shot of the two of them on either side of a desk, with a computer monitor between them. This will cause the audience to begin to yearn to see these two characters, who are presently so stiff and formal, embark on a series of passionate couplings.

Then the middle portion of the movie should be dedicated to scene after scene of normal daily events being interrupted by phone calls from the respective lovers, saying “Can you meet me, right now?” And, each time, they should end up either in a motel room together, or at the mistress’s house, or in the manager’s office at the bank. It is important, as well, to show that the bank manager’s wife never suspects any deception. The lovers should both behave with confident abandon, and have no regrets or remorse.

And the affair should never end. The movie should last no more than ninety minutes – eighty minutes, preferably – and the wife who is pregnant should always appear to be very close to her due date, but the film should conclude before she gives birth. If people wish to imagine that the bank manager’s wife eventually does go into labor, that is fine: people can dream up whatever after-events they like: a newborn boy or girl, whatever. I myself prefer to envision their story continuing exactly as things have been for its duration: with the man’s wife remaining big with child and suspecting nothing, while the bank manager and his beautiful mistress enjoy their fling. It would be good to leave the audience with the notion that the affair continues forever. (Perhaps, likewise, the baby’s birth is postponed indefinitely.)

I think that this would be the ideal movie. The actors would be attractive: they would dress nice, their voices would sound pleasant, and each one’s personality would win you over. The camerawork, the editing, the sound design, the art direction, and all other aspects of production that comprise the motion picture would be alluring: nothing about this film would be dull. Moms will love it; dads will love it; little boys and girls will love it. In short, the whole family will love it. It will be the summer blockbuster, as well as the movie that all families watch together every Christmas. It will be the film of films.