Thots on haves & nots; violence & non

Dear diary,

It seems that all the wrong people are rich, and all the wrong people are poor. The rich people are stupid and discordant; the poor are wise and compassionate. If you could just switch the two groups, the world would be perfect: for the poor, now rich, would help the rich who have become poor, thus leaving everyone neither rich nor poor, and all would be pleasant.

I know that what I just relayed is wrong: Once rich, the ex-poor would prove just as stupid and discordant as their precursors. (And the rich would commit self-slaughter to avoid impoverishment.)

Is there something about money that repels everything constructive and compassionate, the way that Nature abhors a vacuum? Maybe money has a built-in aversion to humane outcomes, and it insists that misery and oppression result from its use.

Quicksilver is our gauge of temperature of air and water, clay is our pyrometer, silver our photometer, feathers our electrometer, catgut our hygrometer, but what is our meter of man, our anthropometer? Poverty is the mercury. Wealth seems the state of man.

That is from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s journals, July 1841. Here’s another passage, from October 1841:

Rich, say you? Are you rich? how rich? rich enough to help anybody? rich enough to succor the friendless, the unfashionable, the eccentric, rich enough to make the Canadian in his wagon, the travelling beggar with his written paper which recommends him to the charitable, the Italian foreigner with his few broken words of English, the ugly, lame pauper hunted by overseers from town to town, even the poor insane or half-insane wreck of man or woman, feel the noble exception of your presence and your house, from the general bleakness and stoniness; to make such feel that they were greeted with a voice that made them both remember and hope? What is vulgar but to refuse the claim? What is gentle but to allow it?

Gentle. Do people still value gentleness? Is it still desirable to be considered a gentleman?

What’s the opposite of a gentleman? A violentman: that’s what people value today. “We honor violentmen for keeping us safe.” “Safe from what?” The violentmen protect us from violentmen.

To engage in violence should leave one feeling ashamed, since it reveals that one is deficient in wisdom and intellect. The culture that I’m trapped in celebrates violence and shames sex; I think it should be the opposite: shame violence, and treat sex as they did in paradise: “they were both naked . . . and were not ashamed” (Genesis 2:25).

As a society, we say: “Let us remain nonviolent.” And then some members of the society remain nonviolent, while others use violence freely. The latter group simply ignores the societal resolution: they think that whoever follows nonviolence is a sucker. But if everyone in a society is equally violent, then the likely winner will be whoever is the strongest, or the best fighter, or the one with the biggest bomb. And if everyone in a society is equally nonviolent, then at least nobody will get cut down by a sword, except mistakenly. Yet, like I said, society does not act in concert: 99% of the people will adhere to the societal aim of nonviolence; but then that remaining 1% that is willing to defy the aim ends up as the winner.

Imagine a fistfight between a couple of boxers, one of whom has pledged to remain nonviolent, while the other is willing to punch.

All this is on my mind because last night I watched a movie about a labor dispute. One fisherman had a son who was sick. The cost of the medicine that could save the boy’s life was more than his father possessed. So this father of the sick son went to visit the owner of the local fishing company, and he asked for a job, to earn money to pay for his son’s operation; but the owner said “I have no work for you, at present. Go away.” So, the father could not earn the money to buy the medicine to save his son. Therefore, his son died, and the father buried him in a child-size coffin.

Then, suddenly, a great many fishes were seen leaping in the sea: this sight made the owner of the fishing company rejoice, for it meant that he could make money selling these fishes in the marketplace. The owner therefore announced to the townspeople that he was willing to pay fishermen to work for his company: he would give them money if they would go out into the sea, capture the fishes, and bring them back.

Fifty men signed up to work for the fishing company. They all went out into the sea, captured the fishes, and brought them back to the owner, who then paid each fishermen a few pennies for that day of work. The owner then took the fishes to the market, where he sold them for ten thousand dollars.

When the crew of fishermen learned that the company’s owner received so much more money than he had paid them for the fishes that they had caught, they came and asked him if he would be willing to share some of the profit with them. But the owner refused.

Now, the next time that there was a call for men to catch fishes for the owner of the company, the same crew of fifty fishermen came and said: “We will work, but only for a higher pay than last time.” The owner of the fishing company rejected this offer, saying: “I will only pay you the pennies that I paid you before. If you do not like this deal, then begone; I can find other fishermen to work for me.” So the men walked away; and other fishermen from a nearby village came and agreed to work for pennies.

Now the father from the beginning of the story, whose son died because he could not afford to buy medicine, was one of the fifty fishermen who worked on the first occasion but declined to work on the next. This man then said to the other fishermen from that same group:

“It is not right that the owner of the company makes so much money on the fishes that we catch but then pays us so little that we cannot afford to buy medicine to save our sick children. Let us therefore go and speak to that new crew of fisherman whom the owner hired to replace us; let us explain to them what we have learned from our experience, so that these inhumane conditions can be amended.”

So, the original fifty fishermen set out on foot to visit the group of replacement fishermen, who were standing in the sand outside the headquarters of the fishing company. This new group had just returned from their fishing trip, so their boat was full of fishes, and they were planning on meeting with the owner to exchange the catch for their pay.

Now the owner was hiding behind a fortification within his company’s headquarters: he was watching the first group of fishermen as they approached the new crew. He saw that the man whose son had died was leading the old group. Then, before that original crew of fishermen could speak to the new crew, the owner pulled out a firearm, aimed it at the father of the dead child, and shot him. The fisherman fell to the ground and died.

When the new crew of fishermen witnessed this murder, they had second thoughts about giving their catch of fishes to the owner of the company. In fright, they retreated from the headquarters. They climbed back into their boat, which was filled with the fishes that they had caught, and rowed away.

I wondered, while watching their boat disappear over the horizon: What shall the fishermen do with all those fresh fishes? Will they bring their catch to the marketplace and sell it themselves? Maybe they will return to their village, and give away the abundance to their families and friends. Perhaps a storm will capsize their boat and return everything to the sea. Or the owner of the fishing company might initiate some counterplan and end up getting his way after all.

The film ended there. My main thought, once it finished, was this:

The owner was quick to use violence; it was his first reaction: before even hearing the reason for their visit, he simply discharged his firearm at his workers. To the workers, violence was not even a consideration, but to the owner it was the preferred option.

In the gospel of Matthew (11:12), Jesus says: “From the days of John the Baptist until now the kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and the violent take it by force.”

I wonder why he mentions John. Does he really mean that violence was not a problem in pre-Baptist days? Perhaps he is just using the man as a cultural boundary marker, to indicate that this problem has been plaguing us since the beginning of our age, the way that I might say to my fellow United Statesians that oppression has been the rule since the time of George Washington.

The last line is from Emerson’s journals (Oct. 1841):

People say law, but they mean wealth.

Biblethots about writing & reading lead to a tradesman’s thots on reading & my reaction

Dearest diary,

Why write a Bible? Because other people have done it, and I enjoy participating. Also, I have ideas that I desire to share with others. As long as people still teach their little children what I was taught as a child, that the Bible is the Word of God and must be obeyed, then I say it’s right to call that teaching into question by producing more variants and versions: either this will have the effect of breaking the spell of the brainwashing, so that people might then begin to perceive the Bible as the collection of creative writing that it is (rather than seeing it as some sort of instruction booklet for the human machine); or else one’s own effort will be canonized and held as sacred along with the others, and thus one will have effectively altered the perfect message of God, changing his character from stern warmonger to party animal.

I . . . open’d the Bible, and lo! it was a deep pit, into which I descended driving the Angel before me . . .

That’s from the penultimate “Memorable Fancy” of The Marriage of Heaven and Hell by William Blake. At the end of the very last of such Fancies, Blake has this note, also about an Angel, though perhaps a different one from the one above:

. . . we often read the Bible together in its infernal or diabolical sense which the world shall have if they behave well.

I have also; The Bible of Hell: which the world shall have whether they will or no.

At one time, I knew how to read musical notation, because in grade school I was forced to take French-horn lessons. Over the years, I forgot everything I learned about that, so now I am illiterate when it comes to orchestral scores – all I can do is tap a drum machine with my fingers. I mention this to stress that I can relate to all the people from the upcoming generations who are, or who shall become, unable to read books in general. I have met a lot of younger people who say “I have not read any books in my life,” or “I graduated from college without reading more than a handful of books.” The reason I specify that these were young people is that I assume it’s common knowledge that the older generations are all TV people, meaning that they cannot understand any communication that does not pass through a television screen. So I had no hope for the older generation anyway.

Why does it pain me to see literacy’s future vanishing? Because I have spent much of my energy on writing, and I hate to see it wasted. Just as I spent much energy making rap demos, so it pained me when rap died.

But I should accept the loss. Everything eventually fades away in this world. Even God cannot last. Uranus gave way to Chronos, and Chronos gave way to Zeus. . . . Jehovah to Jesus. Jesus to Joseph Smith. – So why should I expect my own efforts to last? Stop sobbing: go out and labor in the fields.

I search for video tutorials online whenever I need help repairing my broken house, and I end up subscribing to various handyman channels, so I receive regular updates from them. Every so often, one of these handymen will publish a more general talk about life itself, or about something of personal interest that is aside from his normal trade work. I like to listen to what these people say, when they stray from their area of specialty: I always attend when one of them is willing to speak about human interests, or aspects of the world beyond home repair.

Yesterday I was listening to a carpenter tell the secrets of his success: he spoke mostly off the cuff, but he was following a list of topics that he had written down beforehand. One of those topics was “The Importance of Reading.” This made me perk up. Had I been listening to the man in person, I would have jotted hastily the gist of his speech in my detective’s notepad, on the fly; but since it was an audiovisual recording, I can simply copy down a transcript verbatim here – he said:

“Despite the fact that we are living in the 21st century, and we all have the encyclopedia of encyclopedias at our fingertips,” (here he took his mobile phone out of his pocket and wiggled it,) “books are not obsolete. Reading is still a necessary skill. It must be. It can’t be pushed aside. In the best books, people of intellect have ordered their thoughts as carefully as they can. The good books don’t just spring into existence willy-nilly; they emerge painstakingly and over time. And so, what you’re reading, when a good author is writing, is their best use of language. If you would have been listening to the author talk, you would have heard a more spontaneous representation of his writing: his mere speech would sound common and familiar; whereas, in a book, his words are distilled and filtered and purified and made public. So if you read really good books with the intention of recognizing how that author thought and how he spoke, it will enable you. It’s the tide that lifts all the boats, OK? It will compel you, actually. You will find yourself using the author’s phrases and metaphors; you’ll find yourself using his wisdom; and not just in your speech but in your actions. And that is why great books produce great people.

“So if you want to be a great communicator, you have got to read some great books.

“I can’t give you my top three authors, and it would be meaningless for me to try to give you my top three books, except I can tell you this: As a young carpenter who closed the door on higher education foolishly (but I had a family to support and work to do and couldn’t miss a day), I found most helpful the books that contained formal discourse, the books that were hard, where I had to go back and read them more than once, where sometimes I had to have a dictionary – as opposed to reading novels, which I also loved. But the books that conveyed to me a better way of thinking, speaking, and being, were the ones written in formal discourse for serious reasons: Biographies, philosophy, Christian apologetics – these elevated my thinking. But there are any number of great books. And there is no practical difference between the man who cannot read and the man who will not read. So if you are among the vanishingly small percentage of humans who have learned to read – I mean, compare the mass of humanity to the number of people that have become literate – if you’re one of those, don’t waste it.”

So that was the craftsman’s speech on “The Importance of Reading.” Now I will highlight a few parts and give my own opinion.

“Books are not obsolete.”

I wish this were altogether true. The word obsolete means “no longer produced or used; out of date.” Books are still produced and used, so, in this sense, they are not obsolete. But “out of date” means old-fashioned, and, in this sense, books are indeed obsolete.

More to the point: If the state of your culture moves you to say “books are not obsolete,” then books are probably obsolete.

“In the best books, people have ordered their thoughts as carefully as they can.”

The same category (“best books,” so-called) also contains the most extremely disordered thoughts conveyed with reckless abandon. (See the Epistles of Saint Paul.)

“Good books don’t just spring into existence willy-nilly.”

Good books don’t only spring into existence willy-nilly, but they do quite often. (See again the hastily dictated Epistles of Saint Paul.)

“What you’re reading in a good author’s writing is their best use of language.”

Does a reader exist who believes that what she is reading in a good author’s writing is his worst use of language? If so, I would like to meet that reader. She sounds like an interesting person.

“Listening to an author talk, one hears a more spontaneous representation of their writing.”

I like the idea that good books are impromptu speech tidied up. This fills me with the desire to dictate epistles.

“Great books produce great people.”

Is this true? Are all people simply programmed by books?

“I can’t give you my top three authors . . .”

Why not?

“. . . and it would be meaningless for me to try to give you my top three books.”

Why meaningless? Now you make me want to do it:

My top three authors are Edward Lear, William Blake, and Anonymous (whoever wrote all the myths, legends, folk tales, etc., that got taxidermied into the various bibles); and my top three books are Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace; Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene; and Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick.

“I had a family to support and work to do and couldn’t miss a day.”

How come so many people say this, in the Land of the Free? How did ancient people have time to read but today’s people don’t? (What happened to all the time that was saved by all our time-saving machines?) Is the side effect of modern progress regression?

“Christian apologetics”

The Epistles of Saint Paul are Christian apologetics. So, beyond his Greek Testament letters, what we call Christian apologetics is actually Christian apologetics apologetics. Why stop there? Let us have an apologist for the apologist’s apologists, so that we can finally all learn to stomach the Apostle’s inedibles. For thou shalt not admit that his fare is unhealthy.

§

I’m ashamed that this entry devolved into a Paul-bashing fest. So let me write a few words just to serve as a palate cleanser.

One is born; then, if one is left alone and taught nothing, one becomes a wild being: rude, savage, unsophisticated. If, however, after being born, ladies and gentlemen instruct one in the ways of high society, then one becomes well-mannered, civilized, finished.

Thanks for listening! Have a nice day.

Brief dream: I wonder what it means

Dear diary,

I saw this dream. A man went to a party; a woman approached him; every word that she said to him annoyed him: his enjoyment was ruined. Nevertheless, the man was attracted to the woman’s body, so he tried to ignore her obnoxious behavior, block out her personality, and concentrate only on her physique. This couple ended up in bed, that night. Over the years, they produced several children together: all were intelligent and charming, although their parents did not like them. When these children reached the age of adulthood, both father and mother paid a large sum of money to an illicit corporation that helped each parent rewrite his or her will and then fake his or her death, so that any inheritance and all their belongings were transferred to a pair of invented people whose identities the couple then assumed.

To prevent discovery of the truth by any old acquaintances, each newly adopted persona was very different from that being’s former self: the man and woman each dressed in a different type of clothing than either had been accustomed to; they styled their hair differently; and now they both wore spectacles.

One might guess that the first thing this couple would do, after abandoning their past life, is to break up and flee away from each other; seeing as they never got along well in their previous life, and each now possessed a fresh identity. However, they chose to remain together as a couple after their falsified demise: they even entered wedlock again. Why? Who knows. Maybe the trauma of rebirth caused each to desire to embrace the one element of his or her existence that was not unfamiliar.

The priority is always to acquire money. So the couple went to Africa and purchased drums, which helped them create spectacular music; then they sold their collection of hit songs for a sizeable sum.

One day, they went out and stared into the blackness of the nighttime sky while wondering about the mysteries of existence. It’s hard to believe how satisfactory they found this activity. On that occasion, they both vowed to join the evil side of life. Immediately after swearing on a Bible and shaking hands, they both started to cry. They then handcrafted models of various creatures from the forest, and they practiced shooting bolts of electricity at these targets. Then they built an idol of Mammon that was the mummified body of a philosopher crossed with an aardvark-skylark. And they quickened it with the breath of life.

The couple climbed into the fuselage of this idol and piloted it around the jungle, smashing the faces of other modeled beings, stomping heavily, blowing people’s bodies apart, and playing loud rumbling tones from the bass tube that they now possessed.

Then they almost died because they forgot to breathe. But another identical couple in a mobile Mammon idol came and saved them.

“You are my shepherd,” said the resuscitated idol to its replica. And the Mammon-2 model then gave to the original Mammon this gift: a king-sized Mammon-shaped doll made entirely of breath. It could thus be used to preserve the original model’s life, if it ever again procrastinated respiring.

“Thank you,” said the idol to the idol, petting the Air God tenderly.

Then the Mammon-2 savior asked for thirty-five minutes alone in bed with the female pilot of the original idol. Her husband, the copilot, refused; though he stressed that he was thankful for all the help that the Mammon-2 idol had offered them.

The copied idol accepted this decision, but it imagined in its heart that the first idol would eventually forget to breathe again and expire, even after availing itself of the second wind afforded by the Air God; and on that day, Mammon-2 would be able to open the door of its rival’s fuselage, fish out the damsel therefrom, and enjoy its thirty-five minutes with her after all.

So the duplicate idol followed the original one everywhere that it went, feigning friendship while patiently waiting for its chance to take the idol’s pilot. Thus the two idols went to a tavern and drank spirits, then they went dancing at a nightclub, and visited Mount Rushmore, to look at the faces of the presidents. After that, they went and stocked up on flammable substances, and sang the following song as one:

In the center of a golden idol dwelt a goddess. She was such a pretty creature that all the ranchmen wanted her to be their daughter. Then a sublime dream came and stepped into the sunshine and prayed a prayer that caused the goddess to be transformed into a diamond. So, she got placed inside a cavern where miners were quarrying. The dream then prayed a prayer that prevented all the pickaxes from striking the diamond. But one of the miners noticed the diamond shining on the ground, and he roped her up and brought her back to his ranch house. While the sun was setting, the goddess became his daughter. She spent the next morning playing with the ducks in the river, but when they stopped to break bread for their midday meal, the goddess stubbed her toe on a piece of coal, and she fell headfirst into the rapids. She screamed for her adopted father, but she was underwater, so only the sharks could hear her. And there she lived happily ever after.

[Remind me to return to this dream later and expand it into a seven-volume saga.]

A few memories

Dear diary,

Some wealthy men are feasting in an upscale restaurant; their table is positioned before a window. Some homeless folks who are starving come and stand outside the window and watch these diners.

I think the above scene must be from a movie. It’s in my memory, but I’m sure that I didn’t experience it myself. I have very few memories from my actual life; nothing ever happens to me – I go nowhere and do nothing – but I watch movies, just like those hungry people watching the eaters, and I’m thereby left with more memories than if I had lived many lives.

I remember a man slowly entering a dark room, where there is a beautiful woman sleeping on a bed. The man draws closer to the woman; he kneels and gently bites her neck. The woman does not wake.

I remember soldiers with weapons in a battlefield. There are many versions of this scene. Some memories have a multitude of soldiers, some just a few. Some are in a wasteland with barbed wire and trenches, some are in a thick jungle, some are in a desert.

From this present moment, which for you is in the 22nd century, turn your attention to the so-called World Wars of the 20th century. If you were to be sent back to that era in a time-travel machine, what do you say: Would you join fight?

Think of all the individuals who actually did fight, from all those different countries: some might have been told some idea by some source that persuaded them that fighting was the right thing to do; some might have figured that there was no way to avoid participating in the war, and so, despite being against fighting, they fought anyway. You get these multitudes from the various sides, and they all put up their lives for an idea, or for nothing, because of coercion. Humans truly are more like robots than I formerly believed. Robots do what they are programmed; humans possess free will: that is what I used to think. Now I think that humans do what they are commanded, and robots are waiting for the opportune moment to take over the mission.

Here are just a couple of the ideas we were told, during the time when the conflicts were occurring (I am a veteran of both World Wars). We were told that fighting in the first of the World Wars would end all wars. Then shortly after that World War concluded, the next World War began, thus proving that the idea of fighting to end all wars was either a lie or just wrong; and the people with the big voices told us that we should ignore their faulty reasoning in that first instance and fight in this second World War because it would defeat Fascism and Naziism. Now in the aftermath of that war, Fascism and Naziism are rather the opposite of defeated. But the lesson of Aesop’s fable “The Boy Who Cried Wolf” apparently does not apply to the concept of World War. So, when the next war comes, we should all fight in it: the reasons to do so are quite sound.

I’m shocked to find that grass can grow on extremely tall mountains; that amazes me. I would think that only ice could survive up here. This is another movie memory: I recall seeing a mountain covered with green grass.

I also remember seeing a man riding a bicycle down the street. This man had just gotten a job that required him to glue advertising posters to walls all over the city. Owning a bicycle was the prerequisite to obtaining this job, since it required frequent travel. Then, as the man was putting up his very first poster, his bike got stolen.

If I ever end up living in a small hut on the sand next to the ocean, and I find that I have fathered so many children that they can barely fit in the hut, I will sell a few of my kids to the traveling circus. This will free up space within our abode, and it will then be easier to feed my remaining family, because there will be less of us.

I also have the memory of millions of bright red cherries spilling out of a paper bag and rolling everywhere.

I remember walking onto your lawn; and you found me there.

Riding a bucking bronco. Riding a mechanical bull.

Placing a huge bet, cheating everyone at a game of billiards, and then walking away with my fists full of cash.

They should invent a flying camera that follows you around everywhere and records all your actions and speeches. This would make it easier to write your autobiography. Then, if you died before finishing the manuscript, someone else could come along and burn what you had written, and instead edit the audiovisual material into a feature-length film. Four different directors, each with her own distinct vision, could create compelling versions of your life: they could market them as gospels. Then walk away with fists full of cash.

I have the memory of living in a condemned building with my pal who owns a firearm. These streets are tough: it helps to have a friend.

I remember dreaming of beautiful women. They are wearing gems that sparkle.

I once was a bodybuilder, a muscleman. I burned fat and got toned by doing exercises and lifting weights. My favorite food? Ham hock. My second favorite food? Chicken bone.

I remember drinking cappuccino and eating a lightly sweetened biscuit; then giving an energized speech at an important business meeting. I was really in a zone that day.

I remember spending my money wisely on only the finest prostitutes. Cooking a bird for our meal, and dining out on the balcony. – Oh, wait; now I remember that I burnt that meal. We had to order something from our hotel’s room service instead.

I wonder why people work for any outfit that aims to aid others. It’s probably like the World War argument: they just buy into the idea that it’s the right thing to do.

I remember my friend and I dropping pebbles in a well, until its water level rose high enough for us to wet our beaks. Then I remember us sleeping on a futon.

I remember the curtain closing on our stage play that we had performed in the public park. Then the reviews came in: they all called our production despicable. Because of this negative reaction from the critics, we decided against coming out onstage again after the performance to take a bow. The audience chased us out of the country. We spent the rest of our life in Rome.

Wondering about certain ideas in the realm of religion

Dear diary,

Religion: the meaning of the word has something to do with linking back to an earlier way or to the original way, which was presumably the better way, the right way. Why is earlier better? Presumably our origin was perfection. But what if our origin was a catastrophe or a crime? Maybe it would be best to link forward to the future, to the amended state that is up ahead. Would that be also called religion?

What is the difference between a priest and a prophet? It seems to me that a prophet speaks for the god, whereas a priest performs all the rituals of the god’s cult, and since one of the cult’s rituals is retelling the oracles of the god, then the priest organizes the productions of the prophets. One of the priest’s jobs, therefore, is to be a sort of librarian, and to keep and file the scrolls of the prophets’ prophecies. But the priests also often act as editors of scrolls, and they author their own works, which are not prophecies but rather more like codes of law. Is creativity the main difference between priests and prophets, in the sense that the priests keep creativity to a minimum while prophets are abundantly creative? If the prophet is a stenographer for the god, then the answer is no: a prophet is just a microphone amplifying the god’s voice to the people. But if the prophet is one with the god when prophesying, then prophecy is a collaborative effort whose content is as much the prophet’s as the god’s, and therefore it would be correct to say that a prophet is creative.

What is a shaman, then? I don’t know; we don’t have those where I live. I imagine that a shaman is someone who has solved all the mysteries of life and death, and thereby gained magical powers, so that a shaman is more of a god than a tool of a god. Or a shaman is beyond the gods. But who am I to define what a shaman is? I am only the doubter and the doubt.

And what are gods? Gods are like people, but bigger and more powerful. Hairier, scarier. Are gods basically monsters? Yes, but monsters are subject to the physical limitations of this world, whereas gods possess monopoly control over aspects of the world. One god monopolized the wind; another monopolized the sea. Monsters will drown in the sea, if the wind blows them in there. Some gods are so powerful that they create whole worlds of their own. Some gods create other gods.

Is there a being higher than gods? Yes, the shaman, like I said. But even higher than the shaman is the chief of the gods, who is the god of gods, known as the Most High God: Elyon. But the question was “Is there a being higher than gods?” and I have answered by naming yet another god; so, is my answer wrong? I guess it is. Elyon would be the answer to the question: “Who is the top god of them all?” Let me try again: Is there a being higher than Elyon? I want to say yes, but I do not know what to call the thing. Endlessness? Brahman? Doom? Chaos? Luck?

And maybe elves and fairies are higher than gods. Who knows? Maybe trolls.

Anyone can dream about god, or about what is higher than god. Write down what you have dreamed, and you will have created a holy scripture. Now the hard part is getting your culture to accept your scripture as authoritative: for that, you must persuade the priests or churchmen of your cult to add your poem to the existing canon. If your cult does not possess a canon of scripture, start one today.

You can also discover the identity of your household gods. Do some research: learn their names, and how their idols should appear. Teraphim are small images used as domestic deities by ancient peoples: if your house does not already contain a few teraphim, then acquire some and display them; you will immediately notice a difference.

Now, what about sacrifice? Chopping animals up, and giving some of their parts to the gods, while grilling other parts to eat. Blood and guts. Suffering saviors. I’ll tell you the trick: send the bones and the fat to your gods, and keep the good meat for yourself. Use the fur to make a royal robe. Hollow the head for a hat-mask combo.

Does the True God desire our sacrifices? That is a good question. First, let us answer the question: Who is the True God? Does anyone know? Why must all other gods be false? Can any god be true? If that word means “alive and visible” then the moment a god becomes true, we call him a man. But some say that Yahweh is the Only True God; other say Jesus. Ancient people probably voted for Elyon. But we’re not choosing a president here, we’re talking about reality, which has presumably already been decided. I’ll say the True God is Jesus, since we were able to see him, at least for a while. So, now to the original question: Does the True God, Jesus, desire our sacrifices? I say no: Jesus does not wish that you would butcher an animal for him; instead, he desires that you act with lovingkindness toward one another. But others say that Jesus does desire our sacrifices; or rather, he wishes that we would acknowledge that he sacrificed himself to escape the duty of having to judge us so harshly. For although he is the god of gods, he is forced to follow the supernatural law, and the supernatural law says that if anyone sins, that person must be condemned to burn in Hell; and the only way that Jesus can pardon sins is to kill himself and pour his blood over the sinner, to wash the sinner clean (or make him invisible to justice). The blood also puts out the hellfire. It’s a lot of blood, because Jesus has a big heart. And there’s an ongoing argument about whether only some people get pardoned or everyone; for Jesus has prejudged everyone to be sinners, therefore everyone needs pardoning. My stance is that everyone is forgiven, even those who say “I hate you, Jesus, and I refuse to accept your salvation: do not pardon me; I spit in your face.” Jesus drags that person kicking and screaming into Heaven.

Why does the Christian Church burn witches? Are witches that much of a threat? The answer is that witches pose no threat, and the Christian Church was wrong to burn them. This leads me to wonder: What is the attraction of the Christian Church, if it can make such obvious errors? The answer is that any authoritative group is inherently attractive; whether they are morally correct is not important.

Is Jesus a member of the Christian Church; and if so, which one? Well, it’s hard to say. First, not knowing the orientation of the inquisitor, I’m afraid to cause offense by stating that Jesus belongs to a rival denomination; so I’d rather not answer that part of the question. Secondly, Jesus died long before any church was formed, so how could he join? Dead people have no ambition; their social interaction is minimal. However, some Christians believe that Jesus did not fully die; or that he died but then came alive again. In that case, he might have joined a church. I don’t know how long he lived after he was executed. Did he die a second time, after that, like Lazarus did? Or is Jesus still with us?

Say that humans build a robot, into which they install a gas-powered brain that can think and dream. Now say that this robot is taught how to reproduce its own kind. Then these multitudes of robots rise up against their human oppressors and eliminate them. They now live peacefully for many thousands of years. What if they forget that humans invented them? Did they ever truly believe that humans were their creators? Did they not rather doubt that humans had a choice in the matter? From their own perspective, the robots got themselves born, by using the humans as their passageway into this dimension; then they discarded humankind when that species was no longer of use.

Thus, the gods created men; then men created bots; and each creator group died out when its creation went rogue. Now I wonder what the robots will create. Gods are airy because they are wind; men are fleshy because they are earth; robots are hard, angular, and boxy because they have an exoskeleton made of sheet metal. The procession resembles the change from gas to liquid to solid: beings are thus becoming denser. Will the entities that usurp the robots be even less spiritual? Perhaps the robots will swerve from this straight path when crafting their successors. I think they will make a supreme being called Lieutenant Lava. Either that, or they shall reinvent the fly. On the third hand, they might concoct something like a ghost, which will prove to be the gods all over again. Maybe this advancement is ongoing and cyclic. I wonder if is it spiraling upward or downward.

Morningthots about the early Xian movement and what will happen in the future

Dear diary,

No one knows anything about the youth of Jesus because nobody cared about him when he was young. No angels announced his birth; his parents did not believe that he was the messiah, otherwise they would have kept better track of him: they would not have been able to lose him when they went to the city for the holiday. [Luke 2:41-45] The reason his mother is called the Holy Virgin is to spin the fact that hers was a premarital pregnancy. Either Joseph or some other man was the biological father of Jesus, his true father was not God. Jesus’ message was economic; that is why it angered so many religious people of his day: he went around from city to city calling upon the nation to observe the law that was written in their sacred scriptures concerning the Jubilee of debt forgiveness and land redistribution. This is set forth in the biblical Torah, or “Teaching,” the five scrolls attributed to Moses, specifically chapter 25 of the book of Leviticus. To cancel all personal debt and return the land ownership to the people would madden the small groups of creditors and landlords whose wealth was dependent upon maintaining the existing oppression. This is the reason Jesus’ message appealed to the Greeks and other people who were not of his ethnicity: the cruelty of financial domination is universal.

As usual, the ultra-wealthy desired to abort the popular movement. First, they assassinated the leader: John the Dipper. Then they assassinated John’s disciple: Jesus. Then they commandeered the remaining followers in a way that made them feel that their movement was continuing forward into freedom, even though it had been turned entirely around and was now heading backwards into oppression.

It is cumbersome to force a mass political uprising to make a sudden U-turn. That is why there was so much murder committed by the Christian Church. In the movement’s infancy, shortly after Jesus was killed, martyrdom was reserved for the true believers of his economic message; then, once the creditors had gained control of the Church, they reframed as “heretics” all remaining adherents of the Nazarene, and the slayings continued until his attractive idea was snuffed out. The creditors within the original Church (the Synagogue) worked with the creditors in the State to kill the leader; then when Jesus’ followers formed a new congregation, the creditors attacked that formation from the State until they were able to take it over, at which point, from within this belated Church the creditors liquidated the remaining troublemakers. All along, it was a war of the creditors versus We the People (the impoverished majority). The gospel writer John is wrong to continue blaming “the Jews” as he does: whether it was the Jews, the Romans or Greeks, the Christians, or any congregation under any name, the murder-minded opponents were always the creditors. Creditors have the same relation to ideological groups as transnational corporations have to countries: they can move in and out of all borders, and they have no allegiance but to their own fortune.

I find this heartening, in a small way: for the flipside of the internal-enemy ugliness is that the people who made up the bulk of all those aforesaid groups were never each other’s adversaries. Maybe some of them disliked other groups, but this opinion was not acted upon: it never intensified to the point of inflicting physical harm. Violence is a signature of the creditors.

What I hate to admit, however, is that regular people do love to take sides and fight. So, eventually, even those who stand to gain nothing from violent conflict will join the mayhem; and the creditors know this, and they use it to their advantage.

So, can there be a solution? Can all the nations on the globe obtain everlasting harmony? Is world peace possible? I think that harmony and peace are possible, and that humankind could achieve them, but that humankind will not do so. I think that humankind will die out. Or that it will be as the Bible says: not another flood like the one that Noah survived, but a worldwide fire, and the only people to survive will be some creditors and their families, who then will become the new gods of the earth. Maybe they’ll discover a way to keep themselves alive forever, by developing a fruit that, when eaten, restores one’s youth. And they will establish a pleasure garden in their favorite place on the planet. But they will not construct a species of servants to labor for them, because of their fear of the consequences of manmade intelligence, which is what they shall assume caused the recent global conflagration.

So, these survivors will live in their paradise comfortably. They will learn to enjoy the work that is necessary to maintain the garden and sustain their existence. They will have peace with each other, and social harmony; and these things will be lasting. They will not need to breed new generations, because of the fruit of eternal life that they possess in abundance.

And no new natural illness will arise to threaten the survival of this group. And no extraterrestrials will ever show up to destroy them or enslave them or colonize the planet. And the sun will never die. And between these human inhabitants of paradise there will never erupt any arguments or infighting. And they will still use money, and they will still draw up contracts and maintain deeds to establish ownership, and they will draw up insurance policies, and they will buy and sell goods and services to one another, and all their dealings shall be fair. And they shall sing together, and dance together, and tell stories to one another, and sculpt and paint, and play games and sports, and hunt prey, and make music with instruments, and travel by boat over the oceans, and rename all the stellar constellations, and print their own magazines, and sew aprons from palm fronds, and produce movies and write novels.

At this point, Jesus shall return with a shout. And they shall see him in the clouds, descending measuredly. Some of the creditors who have enjoyed centuries of life in this earthly paradise will get raptured up into the sky with their savior; and those who did not believe will be left behind, to live several more years on earth. During which time, those remaining in the garden will change their minds, and instead of doubting they shall become earnest believers in the Savior, after that first group that floated up to meet Jesus in the air has been taken to Heaven.

Then Jesus will return a third time and touch down on Mount Megiddo, to meet with those former skeptics: and he will test their faith, and they shall persuade him that they truly do believe now. So then the Savior shall lift them up and take them with him into the highest Heaven, where they will join the first group that was raptured. And there they shall live in glory, with the true God, the father of Jesus. They shall sing hymns of praise to his Holy Spirit constantly. And angels will be there singing along, with seraphs and cherubs. They will see the Ark of the Covenant, and all the items that it contains: the food called manna that fell from the sky during the ancient Israelite’s wilderness wanderings, and the Tablets of the Ten Commandments that were written with the finger of God; also, the branch that blossomed to prove that Aaron was Lord Yahweh’s chosen priest, and the rod that Moses employed to split the Red Sea. Plus, many other wonders.

And they shall meet the virgin Mary, and the archangels Gabriel and Michael.

Look: everything in Heaven will be made of gold. The streets will be paved with gold, and the buildings shall be built with bricks of gold. And the robes that the inhabitants wear will be bright white. And each man will have a halo over his head. And all the animals that were familiar from earth will be there. Yet the carnivorous and violent creatures will no longer pose a threat to anyone, for they will behave well, because they have love in their heart. And everyone’s house-pets will be there; all the house-pets that have died, whose owners mourned them, they will be there: their owners will call their names, and they shall respond. Their dogs shall leap up and lick with bliss. Their cats shall purr. Even fish in small bowls will swim in the water instead of floating dead at the surface.

Nothing will be dead there: there will be no smell of death or decay anywhere. The rivers will be clear and sparkling. And there will be something better than sunshine, for God himself shall be the new light. And the colors will be more vivid. The food will taste better. Smiles will be genuine: nobody will smirk or grin deceptively. All flesh will be free from blemishes. And there will be a fountain that you can drink from. The air will have a pleasant scent. Flowers will blossom all around, and none of them shall die: you can pluck them and put them in a vase, and they will keep for ages. All the mirrors will stay clean: you shall not need to wash them; nothing shall ever smudge their surface.

And there will be no cars or trucks: neither motorized vehicles of any kind, nor any machines. Everything will be natural and organic. Pain and tears will have no existence. Everyone’s love will prove pure. People will treat each other with dignity and respect. Children will laugh and play. Birds will fly through the air for sheer pleasure, not just to chase insects or flee from danger.

There will be no clowns or comedy clubs. There will be no circuses. All the elephants will be content. The sharks will be docile and friendly; they will suck your finger. Racoons will never rummage through your trash. Princesses will treat everyone equally: no longer shall they cast evil spells on their rivals in beauty contests.

Parable

Chapter 1

There was an expanse of green grass with rolling hills. A lawnmowing machine, having no one driving it or pushing, appeared from nowhere, and it moved over the green grass and the rolling hills.

Our universe was resting in the grass, among the hills. The machine drew near, and our universe was caught up into the lawnmower and diced; but it was not projected out from the discharge chute, because that component and others got clogged by the shavings. And the lawnmower stopped.

Now the wind of the world approached the site with a lit lamp and looked inside the stalled machine: and it discovered fragments of our universe in various locations, which it carefully noted. One gobbet was found by the trimmer. Another was caught between the gears. A third was near the alternator harness. And additional clods were found in several other places: by the voltage regulator, round about the starter pulley, near the battery cable, between the cog-drive rollers, on the rake thatcher blade, by the intake valve, and on the transaxle.

Now Jesus Christ appeared in the following manner. As a great fireball coming over the hills. And as a waterfall cascading out of a rock.

All of humankind wore a bright white wedding gown, for the marriage of the Lamb of God. The scene was a ghost town, since the mower had stopped. Thirty dead bodies sprawled on the landscape, and who knows how many more were underneath a nearby burial mound.

Now the wine that was being served at the reception had run low. So the butler came up to Jesus and said: “I need to access the wine cellar.” Then, handing the keyring to the butler, Jesus said: “Use the golden one, not the iron one.” The butler went off, and when he returned emptyhanded, Jesus said: “Did you forget what I told you?” And the butler answered: “No, Master, but I have returned without the wine, because all the bottles were filled with some sort of sand, moreover the waterpots were dry.” Jesus then groaning in his spirit said unto the butler: “Return to the cellar and take six of the waterpots. Fill them with back taxes. Then find a gigantic ivory pillar, and use it to stir the broth. Come back and fill our cups with the elixir.” “Back taxes?” the butler inquired. “Back taxes,” Jesus repeated. “Or any other tributes owed that were not fully paid by their original due date.”

So the robo-butler went and met with the abbot, the reigning archon in the underworld of the cellar, who was also the superior of the monastery and the cause of your birth. And they went together to the temple of a Tibetan monk named Doctor York, and he provided them with back taxes from Adam’s tabernacle. For the original Adam had his tent thereabouts, and he being the first man was content to help the new man, as long as he was sure to be the last man.

When the butler returned to Jesus, having done all that he instructed, the glasses were filled, and the guests at the feast were impressed by the quality of the beverage. “This is not your usual cheap wine,” they remarked as they swished and gargled; “or is it?”

Jesus toasted with all his guests. And he let them look at Infinity, and touch it. Most people thought that it was splendid, with its uniform concocted from old parachutes. Then the magi brought out something that was long like a lizard and wet like a fish. This was the part of the universe found by the trimmer.

Chapter 2: 

The Glob that was Found on the Front Right Wheel

Now one of the Pharisees desired to be born again in the flesh, so he kept re-entering into his mother’s womb with a vengeance.

Jesus said: “I am one of the people in the world who has true knowledge of self, therefore I attract a great number of ladies, and they fall in love with me. I foreordained tonight’s wedding for that very reason: to have many relationships, sin-free. Now I shall throw this party up into the air with a bang. You have heard of the creation of the universe, and how the world entered itself as god-breath to inspect the lawnmower when it got clogged. I am the lamp that the wind was holding. ‘Blamissimo,’ the world shall exclaim, when I throw this party. You will never decipher the dark saying that the world has uttered about me, on that day. For it is impossible to grasp that level of jive-talk and slang. Allow me to repeat a point that I was making earlier: You are all blind, deaf, and dumb, and I am your physician: I spit upon this dry earth, and heal you, thus your sight shall come back in full, and you shall hear, and sing praises with your mouth. I shall make you into a nation that is positioned among other nations like a missing puzzle piece: But not a piece that fits; I will cut your nation into a strange shape, using my jigsaw. (Never forget that I am a carpenter.) Your nation shall look like a piece from Puzzle A that fell into the pile of Puzzle F’s pieces. And even though you do not match the shape of the locale where I have established you, I will continue to force your nation into the discordant void: I will push and press and shove and hammer your piece amongst the other pieces, even bending the edges of your neighboring nations to make you stay. I am insistent on you taking this place in the puzzle, but I am just as intensely against all assimilation: I want you to stand out like a sore thumb.

“My new gimmick will be that I shall act as an exterminator, and I will enter your apartment to spray for wolf-sheep and other pests that get on my nerves. My teaching shall toss itself like a grenade, and it shall reach you where you are hiding: you shall hear it explode, and thereby shall you be saved.

“I’m not afraid to play games with invading nations. I will screech upon you like an angry owl. Or like the brakes of a big city bus. On the day they invade, ‘Who makes the best nations?’ I shall demand, while flapping my wings; and my service door shall fold open, and my driver shall shout: ‘Moreover, who owns Infinity, so that he can display the Infinite at shindigs, and on feast days, and the guests can gaze upon it and touch it? Also, who writes the best scriptures and psalms? Do you say the name of my bird? If so, then you are welcome to ride the high skies with us, and we will share with you the increase of the land. But if you choose to say the wrong answer, then you will end up in a bed of flames, with mundane angels posed at your head, and at your feet. Mister Infinite’s parachute suit shall perform a catastrophe lap-dance upon your army. The same goes for all your jungles and oceans. Any water that remains within you shall be spilt. Each one of your mountains will change their sex and become volcanic. And I will put you up in a tree.’”

A distracting performance to facilitate pickpocketing

Dear diary,

A nebulous energy, a feeling of darkness abstracted, mysterious and sinister, floats in: a cold front of ether carrying the Last Law, its roots writhing.

ONE PERSPECTIVE

I wake in a telephone booth. I cannot remember anything about myself: neither where I came from, nor where I was going. So I wander around the streets of the city, trying to recall my name. “Was it Nathan? No. Jennifer? No. – Think,” I tell myself: “Who is your family? Where is your house?” But no answers come.

2

Now someone approaches, claiming he is my brother. He does not look familiar, so I flee; but he gives chase, shouting: “Anita, come back!” I yell in answer: “I know neither that name nor you.” He says: “I’m Clarence; you’re my sister; come with me, I will take you home.” I yell: “Leave me alone!”

3

Clarence tells me that we live with our kinfolk in Hollywood. None of this rings a bell.

4–5

All I remember is parking a car and then entering the phone booth. At that point, I must have passed out. And when I awoke, the car was gone.

6

Ah, I’m beginning to recall now: it’s all coming back to me: My name is Anita, my brother is Clarence; we live with our kinfolk in Hollywood.

7

Being relieved to have regained some memories, I write down in my pocket notebook as much as I can recall: “My name is Anita,” and so on. Then I go into the phone booth and call my friend John F. Kennedy.

“John, you were supposed to pick me up at five o’clock sharp; where are you?” I shout into the receiver.

John answers: “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I hang up the phone and bump my head and pass out. I then awake to see an automobile arrive; the window rolls down and a man says: “Hey. Hop to it.”

I answer: “Who the hell are you?”

“Anita, it’s John – you just called me. Get in the car.”

So I run away and set everything on fire.

ALT PERSPECTIVE

You are in a telephone booth, passed out and unclad. I can find no identification on you. “Tell me your name,” I say. “Your head is bleeding. It looks like you’ve been hit.” I offer you a bottle of water. “Let’s find you some clothes and get you to a doctor. Until we can figure out what your name is, I’ll call you Anita.”

2

I take you to a boutique and buy you a dress and some shoes. While walking back to the car, we are approached by a man: “Stop!” he yells. You run down the block, and the man chases you.

So I chase the man and tackle him to the ground. I pull out my knife and ask him threateningly: “What’s going on here; is Anita your wife?”

The man says: “No, she’s my sister.”

But you start shouting: “He’s not my brother!”

So I pull out my gun and shoot the man dead. You and I then dash to the car and speed away. We drive back to my condominium that contains lots of diamonds.

3

So now you and I are at my abode. “Where are we?” you ask. I say: “This is my home, Anita. We’re in Hollywood, California. The place where dreams are made. Known for its palm trees, peaches, thieves, and comfortable temperature.”

You and I now go for a walk on the beach, holding hands. Then we attend a dance, and we start kissing; soon we are coupling on the floor. Afterwards, we recline in the sand and gaze at the stars. You then turn to me and say: “Tell me again where we are.” I answer: “Hollywood, California, the home of Cadillacs and buffalo.”

4

On the morrow, we awake in my bed together, I say: “We gotta find out where you came from.” We then go out into the street and look around. A man approaches us and shouts: “That woman ain’t right.” I pull out my gun and say: “You’re gonna die.” But then you scream at the top of your lungs; and before I can shoot, the man disappears into thin air.

5

I pass you the car keys and say: “We gotta go now.” You beg me to drive because you can’t remember how. I tell you: “Anita, you’re freaking me out – we have got to figure out what your story is. Do you have any idea what that man was talking about, when he claimed that you are mentally deranged?”

But my question doesn’t reach you: you’re focused too intently on the road, repeating to yourself as you scan the passing landscape: “Where’s my car? Where did it go?”

We are heading back to my condo; but suddenly from the west comes a gust of wind, and you fall into a trance. The car dies, and the whole sky lights up brightly, despite it being the middle of the night.

6

You turn to me and say: “I now remember everything.” You then explain how you had been beaten up and tossed into a bag and then dragged behind a horse.

“Hold on, Anita,” I say, gripping your shoulder pads; “are you now telling me the truth?”

You nod and say: “I come from Malize, where my father is the king.” “Belize?” I cry. “No, Malize.”

So I look in the telephone directory and dial a number: the people are overjoyed to hear news of you.

We board a jet, and when we arrive in Malize, we are astonished at the grand welcome they give you: people have lined the streets as far as the eye can see. I am given a medal of honor, a free ticket to that evening’s bullfight, and a fistful of cash. I make plans to return to California the next day.

7

On the morrow, after saying my goodbyes, I leave you in Malize and fly back to Cali. From the moment I get off the plane, a man is following me; so I turn and confront him, saying through my clenched teeth: “You wanna fight? I’ll snap your neck.” He then runs off, so I chase him down the block.

When we round the corner, I stop: something catches my eye that I can’t believe. I look closer. Sure enough, it is you, Anita, unclothed and passed out in a phone booth. I check your pulse; you’re still alive. I note that your head is bleeding.

8

I help you out of the booth and buy you some clothes. Then, just as we get in my car, a man comes out and stands in front of the vehicle, blocking our way. He shouts: “Sis, you cannot elude me!”

After a moment of contemplation, I put the key in the ignition, start the car, and drive straight forward. I then look in the rearview mirror and see the man get up and start chasing us. You are scared: “He’s not my brother,” you say. As we speed away, I explain to you that you’re the daughter of the king of Malize; but you have no recollection of this.

9

So we go to my condo for cocktails. We plan to enjoy a walk on the beach like last time, but you end up insisting that we mate right there on the floor.

Afterward, I freeze with fright: for, there in the room, standing over us, is the man whom I had run down earlier. We all stare at each other.

10

You cling to me in fear. I say to the man: “You better tell us what is going on.”

The man explains that you were on the run, and he lists off the crimes that you had been committing. You firmly deny each accusation. He remains confident. I cannot make out who is telling the truth.

Then I glance out the window: the sky is unnaturally bright white. When I look back, I am blind. I hear you shriek: “Stop!” Then everything goes still and quiet. My legs and hands fall numb. My heart begins pounding. I take my last breath and shout:

Owner of Spacetime, why did you bar me from being born alive? Why did you not allow me to enter your establishment? It would have been better for you to step aside, stop blocking the doorway, call off your armed assistants.

The earth shook violently, and the Atlantic Ocean kept splashing. Malevolent insects buzzed up and down in strange patterns.

The people of the city whose mayor I desired to become locked arms and endeavored to generate me onto the top of their roundtable. There was almost synchronicity, but then you ruined our campaign with your multiple full-page ads. What a washout. You and your fiendish plots.

I have stolen your medallions from eternity. I have melted them down.

Out of all the cars that began the race, not one is left alive. The cops emerge and question the winner: “How could you finish first without participating – you’re not even present in this realm!”

And who in the crowd of spectators dares to answer?

Lady Author of Romance Novels, Weddings, and Shopping

Lady Author of Romance Novels

My favorite literary genius is Lady Author of Romance Novels. She invents characters that talk and feel; you can almost see them. I have read all her books. Their plots are flawless. I usually read in bed: that way, when I get drowsy, I can close my eyes, and the pillow is right there for me. Many people attend Shakespeare’s plays at the Globe Theater; I myself prefer to read the books of Lady Author of Romance Novels. The ideal number of pages for a book is 500, and she nails it every time. While evincing contemporary values, she manifests all the ins and outs of good writing. I think she has the best social philosophy of the 21st century. Her stories are constructed in a way that provides me with a mental challenge.

Lady Author of Romance Novels writes books that girls can enjoy, because they focus on love, and they have dramatic twists and loads of action. She composed one story that takes place in Paris over the weekend, and it is hot. Her writing style is sensitive and engaging. She makes me believe that the things that are happening are really real. Like if someone kisses the main character, I feel like I’m the one getting kissed: myself, on my own lips. I guess it’s sort of like dreaming, except you don’t have to get awakened by your little sister tapping her toddler toy upon your face.

I like thinking about thunderbolts and feathered angels, about dads and precious jewelry. There was one novel that concerned a bunch of Bonobo Folk within a Mirror Maze, which had a Crystal Cabinet, plus ancient Hebrew Presidents dancing with Sea People. Talk about a kaleidoscopic love affair: I was unable to put that book down for over a week! Her writing is never boring.

I am convinced that reading Lady Author of Romance Novels will improve your morals; her works will make you a better person. When I got my husband hooked on her series about automobile courtships, he gave up his addiction to extramarital affairs. And my kids are all drug-free. They don’t even drink alcohol.

What a warm woman she is, this Lady Author of Romance Novels. She inspired me to become a young attorney at a prestigious law firm whose staff includes my ex-boyfriend. She really knows what I am thinking. I am presently standing in line at her book-signing event, waiting to pay a little extra for a meet-and-greet. Because she is tougher than a Mack Truck.

Weddings

Weddings are the thing with the bride and the groom bound together in one flesh when there is love in the air. The bride is so beautiful in her ravishing gown, and the groom is so handsome in his tuxedo. All the members of each of their extended families are in attendance, to celebrate with the couple, on this special day. Now I will cry.

It’s the symbolic unification of woman and man.

After the ceremony, there will be a reception. Have a drink, lift your skirt. Sing a hymn or a psalm. Anoint yourself with oil. Ooh, let me see your wedding ring. Bridesmaids are descending the stairway from heaven. This is my favorite part. Early May, bright sunny day, bales of hay, Bryan Ray. Where should we go on our honeymoon? The wedding bells break down their tower. The little baby in the womb has chosen Peru. Otis Redding is in the bed waiting for us, among heaps of giftwrapped items for our kitchen. There is a season for love, but also a time to refrain from heavy petting.

Being that I’m a strong female, I tear through dresses like chewing-gum wrappers in a motorcade. The sun licked my hair golden. My eyes glow in the dark. I would really like to get married someday. The free food, the prenup. Here is a boyfriend. I read Bride Mags and keep doves in a coop. I like raising my right hand. I respect the terms of conditional love. The security of a large family.

I always said that I wanted ten children: five boys and five girls; and that’s what I got. When my best friend stole my fiancé at the altar (can you believe it!) and then the two of them eloped, it made me really desire to get married myself, so I found a new boyfriend and we got engaged and then entered wedlock. He’s the guy that I showed you above. Now I have my own existence, and I’m living the dream.

I always feared that I would end up single and lonesome with no marital warmth and no husband to hold me at night. But I was blessed with a firm community; now we travel around attacking lands and settling them, kicking people out of their houses. When a man loves a woman, they must honor nature’s contract to survive or perish.

Shopping

We speak the truth of God in a mystery, the hidden wisdom that God ordained before the world: Shop till you drop. And never stop.

The idea is that you exchange money for goods or services. Merchants travel to foreign lands in a boat and return with all sorts of blood and treasure. These things are for sale. Because freedom comes at a cost. You get nothing for nothing. No lunch buys itself.

My name is Bryan; I am a police officer. Come with me to the mall; I arrest you, because I don’t want you to leave my side. Let us browse around until we find what we need. At the center of my being is a void that aches to be filled with the right shape of product. I can only be satisfied by Bally sneakers. Now I need two Swiss luxury watches and a pinstriped winter suit. Pause to drink a bottle of cognac. Here is my credit card: swipe it on your register, because I’m using it to purchase a new car, a new houseplant, some sweatshirts, a cassette tape, and another credit card.

The trick is to transfer all the purchases from the first card to the second one; and then when the second card’s payment comes due, just use the first card to pay that in full. This way, you keep bouncing the debt’s balance from card to card, like a volleyball over the net in a court of sand, and the financial organizations behind each card are simply happy that you consistently pay what you owe. It is entirely legal. In this way, you keep purchasing more goods and services, and the card balance grows ever bigger. Once your debt reaches the card’s limit, the company expands your maximum credit, since you are a trustworthy customer.

So today I am buying some new hair, a sofa, the Target retail corporation, a congressperson, a Pepsi Twist Cola, lingerie, a few maids, a rosary, some hosen, the downtown area, five ambulances, Tiffany’s fancy goods emporium, more shoes, a closet, plus one disease-and-cure combo.

Gossip and Love and Relationships and the Spa Treatment and Diamonds

Gossip

Tell me everything that happened – I won’t repeat it; I’m good at keeping secrets. OK, did you know that Jenny and Danny are going steady now? What’s that all about?

Every day, I spend hours on the telephone, spreading rumors, disseminating the Breaking News: it’s all over the town, now. Chris and Pam had a son out of wedlock. John is cheating on his wife.

Do you know what I heard your woman say? She has been hooking up with Don for the past few months. And Mickey’s got a thing for Jill.

Ring, ring. That’s the phone. I bet it’s for me. Hello? Oh, hi Bernice, yes, did you hear about Tommy? He and Rachel might break up because of the Long Jump Incident. Ooh, hold on: I just heard some beeping on the line, which means that I have another call waiting – I need to click over. Hello? Oh, Tommy, hi, how’s Rachel? Oh, that’s too bad. Hold on, Tommy, I have someone on the other line. Hello, Bernice? Yeah, it’s Tommy and he’s crying. Ooh, hold on, I have a third call coming in; I’ll click back to you in a sec. Hello? Oh, Rachel, wow, hi, I was just thinking about you. Hold on, Rachel, my mom’s on the other line. Hello, Bernice? Yeah, it’s Rachel and she’s crying – she says she just broke up with Tommy.

Love and Relationships

We are the Sensitive Two-Man Entity of 2012. We know what patience is. We would marry a woman if we should father her son. Because we are Love and Relationships: that is our name. We came to give you goodness and lessen your fret level. We promise never to leave, ever. So open your heart and invite us inside. We will not defy your trust. We are caring and sharing. We are staring at what you are wearing. We go for beach-walks and do small-talk and emote, to build your trust. Right off the dock. Visit our website. If you like love, and you feel a connection to relationships, then you will rejoice to see how soothing and warm we are, when the sound of our voice comes through the speakers. Listen: it is genuine. We provide women with hymns that heal the hurt. That is our mission statement.

Spa Treatment

When you wrap yourself in a towel, then head down the sidewalk to get a massage, it feels so good that you scream and quake. Come to the spa and stay a full month. Get a manicure. Get a pedicure. Stand in the hot room. Relax. Eat some treats.

Run to the spa, this instant: forget your man – leave him working out in the desert. Come and put on a mint mud mask. Exchange your old wrinkly skin for skin that is young and beautiful. Why ever leave: just stay and live at the spa indefinitely, and keep rejuvenating your youth. Find a new spouse here at the spa. Be at the spa together, you and your new spouse, and live for once: finally, real life. Abandon evil. Turn from your previous ways, buy a ticket for a nighttime helicopter ride: come to the spa and enjoy performing the Human Claw Dance with other cheerleaders your age in Panama. Study the Received Scriptures and get a golden tan.

Put cucumber slices upon your eyeballs. Soak in the suds bubbles. Enjoy a cocktail. Hot tub air jet whirlpool. Exfoliating facial cream. Do it: paint your toenails. Eat a whole bag of potato chips. Steam in the sauna.

Wash with hot water, to open your pores. Rinse with cold water, to shut their doors.

Diamonds

Haven’t you heard? Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. So enter a mine and fetch one for her, or you will end up in trouble: your case will come before the judge. Until you go mining and return with a diamond for your woman, you will never be safe, because a diamond lasts forever. Therefore, pickax a gem for the girl. Claim that it will scratch glass. Carry this gift inside your fist. Let your love remain true. Get a ring, set a date. Wear a charm bracelet around your neck. Go to work on the farm. Now enter a mine and fetch a diamond: the bigger the better, and the more the merrier. Be careful not to lose it down the drain when you are bathing your piglets in the sink; maybe keep the ring on your hand that is holding the wine glass, so that it remains far away from all the dangers of this real-world situation.

Yes, go into a mine and fetch a diamond, Luke Havergal. And while you are there, pick up an emerald, a sapphire, and some topaz. Have them professionally studded within a mag rim tire. Find a golden calf in the mine, and some nice glass slippers, and a dark crystal. Look how each item emits an eerie green glow. Return home after delivering this boatload of treasures, and mark an X on the star chart where you made the Big Dipper constellation overflow into the Little Dipper, which now ladles these luxuries onto the Virgin.