A wandering thot about more or less existence

Dear diary,

Imagine a landscape where nothing is alive. What does it consist of? Many atoms, sleeping. Now imagine a living creature within that landscape. What happened, exactly, to manifest that creature? Some of the sleeping atoms awoke and cooperated with each other: they joined forces and became an organism, and this being rose out of its surroundings and began thriving around.

OK, now give this living thing a religion to believe in. – Do you see how the landscape has returned to being unalive, even though it still harbors a creature in its midst? This is because the religion that you gave the thing was a life-denying one. You taught it some sort of asceticism; so, just as its atoms woke up and started wildly interacting, all those same atoms were lulled back to dormancy by your doctrine. For you said: Just accept that the world is a bad place where suffering is unavoidable. Then, instead of trying to change what it disliked about its surroundings, it simply accepted the wretchedness and re-entered oneness. The same thing happened when I taught another living creature Christianity. I said: Negate everything about yourself that is vibrant. Wherever the atoms were awakening and starting to work together in harmony, I pointed to each of those places and said: “This is sin.” So all those areas got re-zoned as sleeping districts, and thus my landscape could once again rest in peace.

If the empire punches you, don’t strike back. You will get rewarded in an epoch that never arrives.

Stars are very hot. Apparently, they make metals inside their belly. Is heat the same as movement? Is movement life? Are life and death nothing more than hot and cold?

If motion is the key, then what started anything moving in the first place? And why does it matter what happened earlier? To care about a past event as the cause for some present event is to trace what already occurred: it aligns with dying; as opposed to causing something to happen from scratch – that’s life, absurd. So how does a substance go from still to banging? If you’re a billiard ball, then another ball must hit you. But atoms are different: atoms can enter into conspiracies. I wonder how they choose what to do, or who programmed them.

I should call one of my friends from the past, whom I abandoned when I began to spend too much time writing, and say: “I see that you are married now and have children. Make me an honorary member of your clan, so that I can spend the holidays with you and your wife and kids, instead of with my own family.” For I think that it would be enjoyable to celebrate Christmas with a new group of people. Or if they do Hanukkah or Kwanzaa, even better.

I hate that everyone is always up in arms about the fact that baby sea horses are birthed by the male. We shouldn’t let petty arguments ruin our great nation. Some say that the scientists simply mislabeled the lady sea horse. But scientists rarely make mistakes.

I’ve often thought it would be better if guys would shoot forth eggs instead of sperm. A lady human should have a choice: either to generate sperm within her womb for the eggs that some man deposited there; or to refrain from doing so, thus leaving the donated eggs unproductive. And the decision should depend entirely on her appraisal of his character, whether the lady does or does not inseminate the male human’s ovulation: If she admires the donor’s intellect, then his offering shall become fructified; if not, then not. That way would be much better than the current regenerative process, which favors brute force alone.

Is this true? I’ve heard that most chicken eggs are not fertilized, so when you eat your breakfast omelet, you’re not contributing to the statistics on abortion.

But if we return to the lifeless landscape that we imagined at the beginning of this experiment, I bet that we will find, upon looking closer, that all the atoms we assumed were dead, which is to say asleep, were only half so: in other words, they were dreaming a dream. Waking up establishes an entity with consciousness plus the ability to fall asleep and envision individual nightmares while remaining alive; but being dead means there is no consciousness at all, only sustained and steady sleep and a communal dream that is “the other side” of life. As each living creature has her own private thoughts and secret dreams, the world in which she has her conscious existence is shared with all other living creatures, so the dead atom is asleep privately and secretly, but what this dead atom dreams is the same shared dream that all the dead atoms are dreaming. So, when one asks: “What caused Jesus’ arm to thrust so violently, when he whipped the creditors?” The answer is “Jesus willed his body to act in this fashion.” And when one asks: “What caused the wind to blow in such a way that it guided Jesus into the desert?” The answer is “All the dead atoms dreamt that.” The collective dream of all these sleeping particles is the Will or Spirit that makes all the forces behind the scenes of our living world: gravity, electromagnetism, chance, miracles, etc. So when we asked above “What gives stillness motion, causing dormant atoms to rise, begin to cooperate and form organisms, creating life?” The answer is: the great dream of all the deceased.

You might complain that this explanation is circular or tautological, because it’s basically saying “The atoms awaken because they finish dreaming” – it doesn’t specify what causes them to move from the sleep state to the dream state to the waking state. But that’s how you know that this truth is correct: everything about life is circular and tautological; and the same goes for death. It’s all contradictory and impossible. The fact that anything exists is a real head-scratcher. And we take it all so seriously.

If the blockheads in charge of reality were to offer you a potion that, if ingested, would cause you to believe that you are enjoying existence even when you are engaged in unpleasant acts, how fast would you drink it? I would sip mine, at first; then, once I see how increasingly awful the indignities are, I’d gulp down the rest. And I would have no remorse. It would be nice to feel good about my life.

Morningthots: more moody brooding

Dear diary,

Does life proceed by decades; are ten-year intervals the segments of our “worm that dieth not”? Let me consider this idea . . .

After my first decade of life, I was an ice pillar. At that age, I had already become the fear that has centered my existence.

After my second decade, I was obsessed with the fad of rap music: that was my only concern; all I desired was to listen to rap and create my own rap tapes. I only liked recording with my friend, who was my one partner in our two-man group; I was interested in the studio aspect of rap, whereas live shows utterly turned me off. I had stage fright, so I planned on never performing live: instead, I would have my brother Paul learn my lyrics and go onstage and pretend he is me, and rap my raps alongside my regular rap partner (who incidentally was eager to perform live shows); and since we would implement this solution from the get-go, nobody would ever figure out that the real me never appeared in public. So that was how my life would go, to my twenty-year-old mind: I would have a successful career in rap music, despite being a shy recluse.

When my third decade landed, I was trying to quit the rap habit and in love with literature. Not bestsellers: classics. Also, experimental poetic writing like Dada and Surrealism. I was worried because although I had written reams of text, it was all trash because it was rap; I had never yet written anything bookish. So my goal became to write my first scripture before I turned thirty. And I ended up doing that. I was not concerned about earning money from literary work, because all the writing that I loved most was done by people who never got paid for it. Rather than get rewarded for writing, my literary heroes get punished. Walt Whitman lost his job for making Leaves of Grass; Herman Melville’s life was ruined by Moby-Dick; Emily Dickinson was doomed to obscurity and solitude because her contemporaries labeled her lifework “not poetry.” I’ve also always admired the Hebrew prophets, and all their writings got them killed. I could go on . . . Franz Kafka . . . William Blake . . .

When my fourth decade approached, I had finished my collection of masterpieces (that’s how I thought of them), which I called “Self-Amusements.” I had achieved my goal, and my thoughts about the future were relaxed: I wanted to enjoy an early retirement, because what I had written was satisfying to my taste. I still agree with this assessment, by the way: when I look back on those two volumes of Self-Amusements, I conclude that I accomplished something better than I even dreamed was possible. So, why not rest on my laurels, after a job well done? I knew that I would always love to write, so I began to keep a diary in public, online, using a blog site; but the words that I put there were just low-grade rambling for the sake of passing the time, nothing serious.

Now that the next decade is ending – I ask myself: Did I successfully retire? The answer is no. If repose was my goal, then I screwed up bigtime. Instead of enjoying life and writing nothing beyond the diary, I ended up churning out a bunch of pseudo novels – a set of fourteen. What happened is this: At a couple years into this recent decade, the authorities told us global citizens that there was a deadly pandemic. (Writing this in hindsight, I now ask: Was there any such thing? What happened, exactly? It feels like we were tricked by some secret powermongers who execrate humanity.) At the time, that’s what we all thought was the case: a killer virus was on the loose, lurking behind every atom of air, waiting to end all life. This threat caused me to panic – I feared that the Internet itself would break down and become no longer available; and since I had, till then, contributed all my most recent compositions to my diary, which existed only online, I made it my priority to transfer all the writing that I had contributed to that weblog into book form. To secure a physical copy of all my e-text. If this action seems mad, I repeat: I was panicked, under the influence of lies from on high. So, anyway, once I finished that task, I stepped back and surveyed the result, and I was shocked at the amount of writing that I had amassed from all my aimless journaling: the diary ended up filling multiple volumes in print. I then said to myself: “Why continue adding to this already bloated blank? If, by simply scribbling a little each day, you can accumulate so many books; then wouldn’t it be better to add variety to your oeuvre, by contributing to other formats? You haven’t written any novels yet – why not try that? You can diary just like normal, but compose your daily thoughts in a way that feels like an ongoing narrative rather than an informal letter. So that’s what I began to do. And that’s why I called them “fake” novels, in the end: they’re not really novels; for true novels are plotted out beforehand, all sorts of hard labor goes into developing their characters and events – mine are careless imposters. (I love them for being so, by the way; and I hope futurity does too. For who cares about past writers who are stuffy and punctilious? We desire wild men like Shakespeare and Cervantes.)

My point in writing now is to reflect on this most recent decade of life. I feel the need to confess a sin. I should not have published those novels. Maybe I should not have published my diaries either. It might have been a better idea to select only the best parts. Also, I should not have published my essays and lectures. And I should not have rewritten the Bible. I should have remained true to that initial impulse after my Self-Amusements: to retire. Sit in a lawn chair, smoke cigars and drink vats of brandy.

Or I should have joined the army: that’s what I should have done. I’m told that the army is a place to build a career. So I should have built my career in the army, and then when I retired, I could be a respected citizen. Everyone respects an army veteran. I would have a uniform, and all those insignia patches, with extra pins that symbolize various honors: all proof of my courage and diligence, loyalty, hard work, trustworthiness, bravery, self-sacrifice, and excellence in leadership.

If anyone objects to this by saying “But the army is bad: they do bad things,” I say: Grow up. Everyone’s bad. Everyone sides with badness nowadays. Get with the program. What are you, some sort of goody two-shoes who’s never committed any atrocities? Why don’t you go and work your job as a soda jerk at your local convenience shop; meanwhile, I will land a helicopter in a jungle and shoot my machinegun. We’ll see which one of us has more friends, after the smoke clears from the battlefield. I count hundreds of enemy soldiers dead from my bullets – what’s your score? Oh, it looks like you’re pouring me a free drink, to commemorate my victory. Thank you; this beverage is refreshing, because I earned it with guts and glory.

Why is it always a jungle, I wonder. Didn’t we fight on open fields, in the olden days? What is it about jungles that attracts my country’s current army? Maybe my country is bordered by jungles, and therefore that’s where intruders are most likely to attack. Yes, my country is surely surrounded by thick jungles.

Bout of the bible burlesque blues

[Obligatory image = ad with words removed.]

Dear diary,

I had to write all the way to the end of my bible project before realizing that it is a bad idea. I wish I could have seen the truth at the beginning, but I was blinded by desire. I thought that people would say: “You rewrote your own version of the Holy Scriptures? How interesting; let me read it!” But instead, depending on their perspective, people give one of three replies:

1. If they believe that the Bible is sacred, then they say: “You rewrote God’s book? That was unwise. Who cares what you think; you have no authority. Only my religious denomination can tell me which version of the Bible is authorized: that is the only one that I will read.”

2. If they have already judged the Bible to be bunk, then they say: “You falsified further an already false report? What a waste! I would never give my time to any Bible.”

3. Regardless of their religious beliefs, if they are simply desirous of improving their knowledge of the Bible as literature, they say: “You made your own version of the Good Book? What are your credentials? Oh, I see that you are not backed by any respected institution. Well, best of luck trying to find a readership; I, for one, shall seek out publications exclusively from renowned scholars.”

I can’t blame anyone for reacting in these ways. I myself often share the stance of that third speaker, when faced with learning about the countless subjects that I wish to remedy my ignorance of.

But I think that I was at least vaguely aware of this dilemma when I began, and I assumed that people would find my outsider status intriguing: I must have been hoping that the notion of “average fool dares to take on the sacred” would allure some readers. I’m OK with being wrong. – And the reason I’m speaking of my former self as an unknown entity is that I seriously can’t recall what was in my mind then: it’s as if a different person got me into this mess.

The undertaking was profitable to me as a reader, however. Very much so. Never have I been more comfortable and confident about my biblical opinions. At the same time, I feel easy and loose about listening to others’ points of view: I have no need to bully anyone else with my ideas, as they’re all down on paper now, secure until the day of their cremation.

So what’s my takeaway? The Bible is simply a mass-control device. The poetry is as fine as poetry always is; but the idea that these texts add up to some Divine Message is hogwash. There is no sacred history: that’s only an attempt by the rulers to justify their rule. They’re still doing it, to this day. The worth of the poetic tales and the songs and prayers and preaching is as genuine as the worth of our modern creative writing – contemporary poetry, short stories and novels, essays, criticism, etc. People’s minds are brilliant and fruitful to explore. Some think similarly, others differently: I have no wish to homogenize the cornucopia.

What should we do with land? Should we divide it up, give every group their allotment? Then what? People leave their land to escape famine, or just from wanderlust; then time passes, and they return to find that same land occupied by other people. Can the two groups share the land? No. Why? Because they worship rival gods, and they have different rituals and incompatible cultures. Is all this true? I don’t know – I wasn’t there.

I want to say: I am a part of no group; all groups disown me; I’m in permanent exile. But that’s not the case. I’ve been rooted to this same area for my whole life. Then why do I not identify with it? Why do I not call this land “my land” and this people “my people”? Who is this people? I’ve never “lived off the land” – I purchase my groceries from the supermarket. What land my food came from is foreign to me. I don’t know the people either, who grew the crops that sustained me for all these years.

I don’t like the look of paved roads. I don’t like cars and trucks. I don’t like to see dogs on leashes. Then again, I don’t like to see dogs off leashes, either, because it means that they can come over and bite me, and infect me with rabies. Let us give dogs their own country, so that they can build a wall to keep out all dog-owners.

As for the idea of aging until one’s natural death: I’m against it. Not nature but I myself should determine my end point. So here’s my dilemma: I don’t want to grow old, and yet I dislike the idea of self-slaughter. Therefore, I keep on living and hope that I’ll never die.

I want love, but not the act of love. Or rather, I wish that I could experience the ecstasy of love yet without the physical exertion, all the sweat and heavy lifting. I wish that I could send a phantom of my person out to bed with lovers. Then I could enjoy selected perceptions from my representative.

Similarly, any time that others criticize me or fight me or punish me, I wish that a dummy version of myself could replace my actual self until the evil is over.

I prefer to be ahead of my time, as an artist. But I dislike having to wait for the Present Era to catch up with my creations. I do not like the idea of dying before my writings attain an audience. Yet, if multitudes of new readers were to begin to enjoy my writings, making my popularity skyrocket, this would prove that my works are intelligible to contemporary sensibilities and thus insufficiently futuristic. So, if God ever solves this quandary, I will appreciate it.

A focused communication

Dear diary,

I am the world’s leading antibody analyst. I work in this battle lab, here under the ground. I was born in a big crate of cannabis. My name is Egyptian God. I am 1984 years old. I believe in mummification, the afterlife, and dead people. Today I’m working on a supernatural horror movie. It will be an animated feature for children. I’m thinking of calling it “Antiquated Rationale.” It will be about a thing that goes priming deep into the shell of existence until it meets this girl named Jeri. She rapidly becomes nice toward her visitor. “Ah, we meet again,” says Jeri. “Mess around and pay the price,” the thing replies. They apparently know each other from sometime in the past. (They probably were colleagues in the totalitarian control room.) Suddenly a pizza is delivered. They pay the boy who brings it; then they both grab a slice. Now Jeri’s lady-friend Heidi arrives. She’s like, “Look, I found us a chaperone for the night,” as she shoves forth the pizza delivery boy who just left a moment ago. Heidi was most likely coming up the walkway when she passed the lad trying to leave, and she clutched him by the scruff of his shirt.

“He doesn’t look ready,” Jeri replies.

“Ready!?” laughs Heidi; “look, Jer, he’s got dynamite, and he’s the strongest man on earth, for he was born under this mountain.” And she schools her friend with proofs that she rescued from the memory hole: Boom! Bam! The cave begins to quake.

“We’ve gotta get outta here, or this whole place is liable to blow,” says Jeri.

Heidi is still laughing. They call a moving jam to ooze around the place and get all the personal property stuck to it, so that they can bring it all to safety. The world is counting on them.

“Please, let me go,” says the delivery boy, “I was intending to use this evening to cram for the morning’s exam.”

“Well you should have thought of that before you decided to take the job,” says Heidi. She stopped laughing just to speak this remark, and she is now sporting a mean face. The lad looks terrified.

Why did the leader of their pack have to supersede his predecessor? That is the intimate thought of the thing, which has been observing all these developments from its privileged position. (It has a seat at one of the colleges.) For, long ago, they threw all their enemies into a giant pit of bleeding, where there were demons mashing and punching them. It was a difficult read.

This is the first sin approved by the pope. I’ve heard the Vatican has a lot of money. The earliest Christians, according to one of the old records, did not believe in private property. So when Jeri and Heidi tried to employ the moving jam to transfer all their belongings into their berths on the Christ Ship, the man named Cephus came out and read them the riot act. He said:

“Why, O Jeri and Heidi, did you hold back your goods from the group! We all agreed to pool together everything we have ever owned. And yet you two lied to us, claiming that you possessed nothing, when in fact you possessed all this stuff that the jam has preserved; and everything’s sticky now. Because of your power move, God is forced to do a miracle.” Then he tapped his staff on the floor, and the ground opened up and swallowed both Jeri and Heidi, as well as all the moving jam. Then it spat back anything valuable into the common area.

Now, knowing that this was the custom, back in the day, I wonder: When did the church become such a hoarder of golden luxuries? You might answer: The church does not hoard; it is precisely the same common area as the one that the mouth of the earth spat into, at the conclusion of the above tale of Cephas, yes, it is the zone that currently holds all those golden luxuries of which you speak: they belong to all believers.

To this I say: OK, you convinced me. Your argument is better than average; I would even call it excellent. I think you’re ready to go to the Intergalactic Court and represent our church to the surrounding solar systems. I don’t like to throw around compliments carelessly, otherwise I would admit that you are good at talking. You’re not the burnt-out zombie clown that I was warned to expect. You move like a chimpanzee, and have the instincts of a rabbit, and evince the type of go-getter attitude that is popular among bees when they tip over big jugs of honey for bears to lick.

Chapter 2

On the battlefield, it was the celibates fighting against the practicing polygamists. The whole church was there, on the sidelines, cheering for their favored team of priests. You can easily guess who won. There are photographs all over the sanctuary. Now our pope is bigger than a whale. Our savior has sharper nails holding him up, and he owns a new domicile. He sails down the road looking for anyone who will answer his call. He’s a country-western star, and a camouflaged warrior. He’s filled to brimming with what they call “daddy issues,” so stay out of his jungle. There’s a drama there that’s almost ready to show; it’s all loaded up and nervous. We need to check the civil code, like real politicos, and take things personal. Fashion any of the bones in an animal’s hindlimb and you can take credit for the entirety. I’m the sheriff, he’s the marshal. The main difference lies in the level of government we serve.

Chapter 3

It was Winston’s second year on the job. As I said, he worked in the records division of the fast-food restaurant that is known for flame-broiling their burgers. It’s not fun. The octopus turns red when he’s happy and white when he’s raging with terror. The feeling of fear is the same as the feeling of anger, to him. (He told me.) So you put the patties into the memory hole, and the flames cook them, then you take them out with your hand, and place them on the bun. Sew it up like a burrito. Add some pickles. Then there are squeeze bottles blasting, bursting, blowing out, hemorrhaging ketchup everywhere: everything is red-splattered. Use these to paint your patty. Then lie down on the floor tiles, and cover yourself under the graveclothes, when it’s time to shed your skin. Also, if you’re one of the cephalopods, you can jet your ink blot while you’re down there: form a black cloud, then escape by swimming backwards, until you reach land. Once you’re on His Holy Hill, go sledding. Vanish up into the air. Be corruptly courageous. Use the man named Walking Death to guard your workstation, between comings.

Release from your womb a cool kid with a full bib. Toss carrots to it; tether the warhorse, if needed. Someone should invent a machine that causes items to look antiquated. Father Time should then watch over this process, and toss haloes onto his favorites. When the wild otter runs loose in the auto-body shop, let the owner climb out and announce: “I just want another wife.”

Dear God, stop swinging your bloody sword. The otter seems at last to be out of commission. Even though your record flopped, you still think you possess the same rights as a superstar. But these things are not guaranteed.

O Lord, you are as big as a deer from Milwaukee. Dammit, don’t give up. Hit the ground running. Duck and dodge through the woods on the mountainside. Dig deeper in the muck. Invent new types of cells. Make pickle molecules have an improved aroma. Tell salmon to swim the other direction. Give your fiend a pacifier. Stop tantalizing Hell. Build a rock that looks too big to hold. Make yourself as sharp as a tack. Instill women with the desire to dance to your music. You’ve got your motor running louder than a train. You can do this, I have faith in you.

Now our World’s Creator is winning the race, ripping through the finish ribbon! The reporters flock God; they thrust all their many microphones in his face and ask him: “Now that you’ve won, what’s next?” Our Lord pauses to catch his breath; he uses the towel to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Barley and kelp for the horse,” he says into the TV cameras; “but, for me, it’s wine o’clock.” This apparently means that he is planning on announcing his final opinions about all the living creatures, and on reality in general.

Back at his podium in the United Nations building, God reads from his prepared speech: “My first girlfriend, Heather” he says (and his voice booms like thunder), “she is good; she goes to heaven.” Now one of the reporters from earlier at the footrace interrupts to ask: “Are the rumors true? Didn’t you two break up last summer?” God blanches and replies: “I don’t know how you found out about that. That is factually accurate. But we are back together now.” Then he continues to give his Final Judgment, proceeding on to announce the name of his favorite rapper ever. And then he lists the stiffest, whitest cadaver; then his favorite singer; then his favorite part of the underworld; and then his favorite noise. “For the finisher,” God says, moving on to the conclusion of his great speech, “I want to ask you all: What’re YOU gonna do? I mean, now that I’ve made known my bias, and let you see the Answer Key to all of existence, what do YOU plan on doing about it? You still wanna hit me; you wanna fight? I hope not; for it is sorta like you all won the race, too, cuz I put nobody in hell, as you feared. Isn’t knowing that you’re all coming to heaven with me as fair of a reward for decent living as a trophy or medal? I could give you money, as well. In fact, yes, I will give you some money. Here’s your inheritance—” God tosses a suitcase into the crowd, and it hits an old lady in the head. “I repeat,” he continues: “What’cha thinkin’ about doin’ with your life, now that this is out of the way? Any plans for the weekend? How about applying for the bar? You can take a portion of the exam in heaven. I’ll help you. We can see if you’re qualified to practice law in that jurisdiction. You’re all saints now – why not? C’mon, become a licensed attorney. Learn how to play guitar fast while driving a van. Build a dome to protect my angels. Sign up to join our street-cleaning crew. I respect you, O you tiny little creatures. You’re all fuzzy and cute, to me. Do you want a pony? I’m like your rich uncle now. I’ll give you anything. I flushed all your sins down the toilet. They’re gone forever. Down the tubes, into the darkness. They will never get out of that den. How about all you women who, during earth-life, hated behaving ladylike: do you desire to become boys and men now? I can make that happen. You can dominate your environment physically, once you acquire the meaty muscle-mind of machismo. You can hold knives and really cut things. You can strut and cluck. Add volume to your voice; it will raise your wrath of command to the ninetieth power. Here, I’ll demonstrate on someone – can I have a volunteer? Sharon, you may climb onstage. I’ll throw you a rope. There, now Sharon is bigger and badder, with biceps and ballast from boats and blimps. Sharon Flicek, your name is now Juck. Seven more times manly strength I give you, and I make you sweaty. You can rip and rend anything now. You can ride in my Benz with me, and fix the deck boards at my house. You are handy like that. I’ll give you lots of chicks, too, to take to bed. This is heaven; nothing is illegal anymore. Go and do it with your maid, Shar—I mean Master Juckoff. (Do you prefer Juck or Juckoozi?) Be very careful when you handle chicken eggs, now, because you don’t know your own strength, and you might crush them in your palm without even trying. Man hands. The hands of a carpenter, all callused to death; and you are wearing dungarees. You have a male member now, too, don’t forget that. No more shapely breasts. Get someone else to feed the baby. In fact, bring that tot to God: I will condemn him or her to Hell. I know everything about each little life, and I’m steaming mad. If you don’t meet my demand for perfection, straight from birth, you get the ax. Down the penalty chute for you. Your ex-mother Sharon is now a big tan male from some sunny country. Her masculine birthday is 20 December, two thousand and twenty-five years after the croak of the last Juck. Winter Solstice Eve.”

The conclusion of an episode in my showbiz life

Part 2 of 2

I am sitting at my upscale vanity, using the mirrors of my dressing table to apply my face paint. The dancing ladies are backstage practicing our act.

The Biggest Bigwig enters my dressing room. Seeing me all made up, he remarks: “This is only rehearsal – why are you in full blackface?”

I take a long drag from my cigarette, then reply: “I just left Bessie’s Family Acting Troupe at the boarding house – they’re coming here shortly, and I don’t want them to recognize me. Remember, our little plan would be foiled if they discover that their newbie colleague ‘Tertius Radnitsky’ is actually the famous Bryan Ray, King of the Blackface Comic Singers.”

As the bigwig and I leave my dressing room, I hand my barely smoked cigarette to the doorman, who takes it dutifully but stares at it in bewilderment. (He cannot believe that someone would discard a perfectly good cigarette, which still has so much tobacco remaining.)

As I begin to croon my comic song at the rehearsal, the Biggest Bigwig is called aside by a portly man with a bulldog face, who says:

“There’s a troupe of greenhorn rookie amateurs waiting to see you.”

The bigwig raises his eyebrows and says to the portly, bulldog-faced man: “Ham actors?”

The man answers: “Yeah, ham actors.”

“I’ll be right there,” the bigwig smiles.

Bessie and her family troupe are led to the side of the stage by the Biggest Bigwig, who points to me as I’m rehearsing with my dancing ladies. “That’s Bryan Ray,” he explains: “the famous blackface crooner.”

Bessie seems impressed by this information. As I’m singing, I turn my head and make eye contact with her, while gesturing in a way that invites her to interpret the song as a personal message, just for her. Then I wink, and she smiles.

While still singing, I pace toward Bessie. When I am directly before her, I descend to one knee and remove my hat and hold it over my heart.

Now my song concludes. Everyone applauds the performance. I rise and bow to Bessie, and shake her hand respectfully, being mindful that this is her first time meeting my Broadway Star persona Bryan Ray. (Since I am in full blackface, she does not recognize me as her troupe’s own “Tertius Radnitsky.”)

Bessie and I immediately hit it off. We sit down at the piano and engage in a spirited conversation, as two souls who have fallen in love at first sight. I remove my white gloves, while we talk, and she absentmindedly picks them up and holds them close to her heart.

After this, I retire to my dressing room. Shutting the door behind me, I give an impassioned sigh. With a dreamy look in my eyes, I remove my hat and place it on the head of the doorman, who blinks at me in wonder. I then sit down at my vanity mirror and remove my makeup.

Meanwhile, Bessie is chatting with a few of the actors from her family troupe. Suddenly she realizes that she is still fondling the pair of gloves that she had taken during our parley at the piano. “Oh no!” she says: “Bryan’s gloves! I still have them! I must return them!”

Bessie hastens across the stage, past the dancing ladies who are practicing their strut kicks, toward my dressing room.

I have just finished washing away my blackface, when Bessie steps in. Upon entering, she happens to be looking down and fumbling with the gloves; therefore, I see her before she sees me. In that instant, I am terrified, lest she discover my true, makeup-free appearance: so I duck my head behind a large houseplant.

Seeing me in this predicament, Bessie exclaims: “Oh, I’m sorry; I just came to return your gloves.”

With my body bent over like so, and my face obscured by the leafage of the houseplant, I answer: “Forgive me; I am indecent.”

Then I notice that there is a tall fuzzy brimless boyar hat and a sparkling eye-mask on the floor next to the plant’s pot. Thank goodness I work in the entertainment industry, I think to myself, as I quickly don these items. Now sufficiently disguised, I lift my head out from behind the houseplant and greet Bessie warmly.

Taken aback by my getup, she asks: “Are you going to a masquerade?”

I think for a moment and then reply: “Um, yes. Yes, in fact, I am. I’m giving one at my house tonight. Would you and your troupe like to come?”

She laughs and says: “But we have no costumes.”

I lift my hand and declare that this is not a problem. I then summon the theater’s Wardrobe Supervisor from backstage and instruct him as follows: “See that Bessie here and all her friends receive the best costumes that you have.”

The Wardrobe Supervisor bows deeply and then retires. Bessie thanks me and makes her exit as well.

Now alone in the room, I exhale sharply, then I remove my eye-mask and tall fuzzy hat, tossing them far away from me, in relief that everything worked out. I remark aloud to myself while laughing: “I’m lucky that Bessie didn’t see my actual face!”

At just this moment, Bessie re-enters the room to fetch her purse. In a panic at being caught naked-faced again, I duck down, pull my cape over my head, and remain there crouching on the floor. I stick my hand out from under the cape and wave.

Bessie looks in wonder at me, shakes her head, grabs her purse off the table, and walks out the door.

The doorman now appears and stares at me for a moment; then, thinking that I must be looking for something that I have dropped, he crouches down and joins me, scouring the floor with his head down likewise.

At this point, the Biggest Bigwig enters my room. He sees me huddled under my cape, with the doorman on all fours patting around at my side. After a moment of confusion, the Bigwig joins our hunt.

While we are all three down on the floor snooping around, I lift my cape and peek out. Espying the Bigwig, I tap his arm to get his attention. I press my finger to my lips, and say in a whisper: “Please round up a lot of guests, for I find that I’m giving a masquerade tonight.” The Bigwig nods conspiratorially, and we all return to our ground-search.

§

That evening, my house is filled with people wearing elaborate costumes. I am wearing my sparkling silver eye-mask and my tall fuzzy brimless boyar hat, while dancing with Bessie, who is also hatted and wearing an eye-mask that glitters (hers is gold). She playfully tries to remove my mask, and I playfully scold her. We then gaze into each other’s eyes for a while, swaying to the music, and I remark: “You’re wonderful, Bessie – I’m crazy about you.”

She shakes her head and says: “Oh, you big Broadway Star, you’re just acting – you don’t mean what you say.”

Now, leaning in, I attempt to press my lips to hers, but she turns her face aside. I try again, and she struggles to get away; so I begin to kiss her neck aggressively. She pulls back and cries out:

“You’re too fresh! I’m not used to feeling so out of control.” Then she runs away.

I try to follow her, but she loses me in the crowd; so I stand there and shake my head, smiling. The Biggest Bigwig, who has witnessed this scene, comes over and mock-punches my arm and says: “It looks like the lady has rejected Bryan Ray because she is in love with Tertius Radnitsky.”

I stand pondering this remark for a moment. Then I remove my mask and hat, and hasten away.

§

Now undisguised, as Tertius Radnitsky, I pay a visit to the Family Acting Troupe’s headquarters. There I find Bessie, still wearing her costume from tonight’s masquerade. “How was the party?” I ask.

She smiles: “Oh, it was swell.”

“Did that blackface Bryan Ray try to seduce you?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes, then clutches my arm and says: “Oh, you have no idea how bullying those Broadway Stars can be. Let me show you how Bryan Ray tried to woo me—” and she yanks me close and starts kissing all over my neck and licking my face. Then she pulls back and laughs.

I pretend to laugh, too, despite being now quite overwhelmed with desire.

§

It is opening night for Bessie’s Family Acting Troupe. Before joining their show as the bit player Tertius Radnistky, I perform my regular comedic songs as Bryan Ray in blackface with my dancing ladies.

While I’m onstage singing, Bessie and her troupe are backstage getting ready. The troupe’s manager now comes up to her and reports that one of their actors is missing: “Tertius Radnitsky must have come down with stage fright, for he is nowhere to be found.”

Bessie assures the manager: “Oh, Tershy will be here, don’t worry – he wouldn’t fail me.”

The manager, however, unable to relax, replies: “But we can’t wait any longer – our act is next!”

Bessie tries to hide her concern. She bites her thumb. At this moment, my Bryan Ray routine ends, and I head backstage. As I see Bessie looking distraught, I say: “What’s wrong?” And when she explains that they can’t find Tertius, I ask:

“Can I help? I’ll gladly play his part for you.”

Bessie thinks for a minute and warms up to this idea. “OK,” she nods.

“I’ll go make an announcement,” I say, smiling widely. Then I dash back out onstage and speak to the audience as follows:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am now about to do something that I have wanted to do all my life – I’m going to appear in a dramatic play.” And, waving my hat, I disappear behind the curtain.

The Biggest Bigwig comes and visits me in my dressing room, as I’m changing into costume. I complain to him: “You know, this prank, which has me lending my professional showmanship to that troupe of amateurs, isn’t as funny as it first seemed. That girl Bessie really cares about their performance, and I feel bad for making the whole thing into a joke.”

The Bigwig waves away my words with his hand and replies: “Stop being sentimental. Unless you want your career in showbiz to flop, then you better go give it your all. And make sure it’s funny.”

§

The play begins. The bayonets of the army march through the background, as before. Bessie and the rebel spy step out of the house; the latter raises his sword and exclaims: “I am off to the war!”

When the U.S. flag appears among the bayonets, the couple salute it; then the rebel hastens off to follow it. Before leaving the stage, he turns and shouts out: “Au revoir!”

Bessie’s character waves and blows him a kiss, as she re-enters her house.

Throughout the performance, the audience laughs uproariously, because Bessie’s wardrobe suffers various malfunctions, which keep revealing her undergarments.

Watching all this from the side of the stage, I am not amused, for I am aware that the crowd is laughing not with but at Bessie. Now the Biggest Bigwig comes over to me grinning leerily; he slaps my shoulder, and says: “Bry, this is immense! I’ve never heard so much laughter in a theater.”

I shake my head and say: “Breaking her heart to get a few laughs isn’t funny, to me.”

When the curtain comes down to conclude the first half of the play, the actors huddle and Bessie says: “Something is wrong here, but I don’t know what.”

The actor playing the rebel spy says: “We’ve got to put more spirit into the second half.”

The other actors nod. They then disburse.

The Bigwig squeezes my arm and slaps my back and advises me: “Make it funny, Bry.”

Now the curtain rises, and the play’s second half begins. The stage is covered in fake snow. The army storms forth, blasting their rifles. Bessie steps from her house’s front door and empties the fake snow out of her bodice, reigniting the laughter. Bessie shakes her head angrily at the audience, as if to say: “Stifle your mirth.” The crowd laughs even louder.

Now the villain from the enemy troops attempts to kidnap Bessie. He lifts her over his shoulder; this gives the audience a view of Bessie’s knickers. The rebel spy dashes onstage from the opposite side and performs a rescue. Bessie’s character thanks her savior by waving a kerchief, while he heads back into the fray.

When my cue arrives, I stumble forth to center stage, holding my heart as if critically wounded. I am still in full blackface and wearing my dying soldier’s getup. I also donned enormous snowshoes for tonight’s performance, which make my walking very awkward: the crowd finds this hilarious. Bessie watches me in bewilderment. To expire, I flail my arms like a drowning swimmer for as long as the audience will laugh, then I tip back onto my rump and close my eyes. I lie as still as possible, with my tongue hanging doglike out of my blackface. Although I’m fictionally dead, my chest keeps rising and falling from the respiration that all this effort required.

Instead of coming down to hold me in her arms, so that we can perform our scene where I briefly resurrect to say I love you and then return to death for good, Bessie steps to the front of the stage and addresses the audience directly, with tears brimming her eyes:

“Why are you laughing!” she cries out. “This is no comedy.”

The crowd now laughs harder.

Bessie continues: “You can all go to blazes! You don’t know a good show when you see one!”

The curtain closes behind her while she is speaking. Not knowing this, when she turns to flee, she runs right into the drapery and collapses: her hoop skirt billows over her head, divulging for the umpteenth time a generous view of her bloomers. To get backstage, Bessie wriggles under the curtain like a serpent.

Once behind the drape, she climbs to her feet and stomps straight in my direction, shouting: “You! You made a fool out of me!” She slaps my face, and my makeup leaves her palm black. She then runs to the exit.

It is raining outside. After bursting carelessly out into the back lot, Bessie stands there sobbing in the downpour.

I dash out after her and wrap my arms around her, begging forgiveness. I admit all my wrongdoings and confess the shame that I felt while acting like such a cad. At first, she is resistant to my pleas; but then her resolve starts to soften, and eventually she succumbs to my persistence.

Now looking up into my eyes, Bessie steps back in shock: for, as we have been in the pouring rain all this time, my blackface makeup has completely washed away. She gasps and exclaims: “You’re Tertius Radnitsky!”

This accusation takes me off guard: I stare open-mouthed and dumbstruck for a moment. Then, placing my hand against my cheek, I remove it and gawk at my fingers, making the inference that the color of my skin was soluble.

Bessie’s indignation flares back up intensely. She bolts off into the rain shouting something unintelligible. Now a few stagehands from the theater come out and fetch me, saying: “Come back, Mister Ray – we’re holding the curtain for you!”

Epilogue

Much time has passed since the above ordeal. Bessie’s Family Acting Troupe abandoned Broadway and returned to the road. Their tent is now set up again with the sign that says “Actor Wanted: No Experience Needed.” Several candidates are standing in a row, waiting to audition.

Bessie steps out of the tent flap and stands before the first man in the row. “Say ‘I love you’,” she instructs.

The man says: “I love you.”

Bessie shakes her head, and moves on to the next man. “You, try it.”

“I love you,” he says.

She shakes her head again. Without looking up, she moves to the next auditioner: “Go ahead,” she mutters.

I myself happen to be this third man in the row. I reach forth and touch her chin, and gently tilt Bessie’s face up, so that she meets my eyes; then I declare the line with heartfelt sincerity.

Bessie is overcome with emotion. She shakes her head and steps back and tosses up her hands and tells everyone to go home. The row of auditioners disperses; they all leave – only I remain. When Bessie looks over and sees me waiting hopefully, she frowns and begins to head back toward the tent flap.

In desperation, I grab the huge, heavy sledgehammer that happens to be on the ground, and I start to pound in one of the tent stakes. Out of the corner of my eye, I pay attention to when Bessie looks my way; at that moment, with my free arm holding the stake, I swing the sledgehammer and give the appearance of hitting my own hand. I then fall down and writhe on the ground, clutching my hand and feigning great pain. Bessie sees this and rushes over to help: she takes my hand in hers, and hugs it to her chest and strokes my fingers. I now grow calm, as though this alleviated my agony.

Relieved that I am not seriously injured, Bessie pulls me after her into the tent. When the flap closes behind us, the audience can only see our footwear. Our shoes turn toe-to-toe, indicating that we are facing each other. Bessie’s heels then rise, signifying that she is standing on her tiptoes to kiss me. While holding this pose, Bessie’s arm comes out of the entry flap, grabs the “Help Wanted” sign from the place where it is hanging, and brings it into the tent. This means that Bessie has rehired me into her Acting Troupe and that she and I shall be lovers forever after.

---

Source: The Matinee Idol (1928)

An episode from my successful showbiz career

Part 1 of 2

My story begins in the Theater District along Broadway, in Midtown Manhattan, New York City. For those who are unfamiliar, this is the highest commercial level of live theater in the English-speaking world.

See my name in lights on the marquee: Bryan Ray, Star of the Show. My routine consists of lady dancers who do strut kicks around a piano while I sing humorous songs in blackface makeup. I’m known as “the King of the Crooning Comedians.”

When I finish my act, I bow. There are representatives from all the major production studios in the audience. While I’m bowing onstage, one of the bigwigs turns to the biggest bigwig and says: “Well, what did you think of the show?”

The biggest bigwig answers: “Bryan is certainly the King of Blackface Entertainers; but if he continues performing at this level, he shall certainly burn out. He needs a rest. He is the hardest working man in all of showbiz.”

After my bow, I go backstage and wash off my black face-paint. My butler emerges from the shadows holding two huge bags overflowing with mail; he says: “You’re getting over five hundred letters a day, Sir – and all from women.”

I turn around at the sink and smile while my face is still half black and remark: “When I was a ghostwriter of sacred scripture, I didn’t even get a single postcard on Christmas.”

The biggest bigwig now enters my star chamber while I’m lighting my cigar, and he slaps me on the shoulder and says: “Bry, you need a rest. How about joining us for a drive to the country? Come on, it’ll be like Godard’s film Weekend (1967).”

I pause for a thoughtful moment holding my cigar in the same pose as that famous photo of Freud; then I nod once and say: “I’ll go anyplace to get away from these screaming fans who keep sending me love letters.”

The bigwig laughs. We then leave the theater and join the other studio executives in the motor coach.

After we make it past a very long traffic jam, we cruise on the highway for a while. But then our engine breaks down and we get stranded in a small town that only has a single mechanic. On the entry door to his shop is a handwritten note that says:

“Ned’s Auto Repair is closed temporarily because Ned the mechanic went to see the show.” And underneath this note is the ad for a local play, which is being put on by a family acting troupe.

The biggest bigwig elbows me and points to the “Help Wanted” sign attached to the show’s ad; the smaller print says “One actor needed; no experience necessary.”

The bigwig says: “Bry, you should audition for the part. We’re forced to wait anyway, since Ned the mechanic won’t return till the show is done, and we have nothing better to do. Hmm, it looks like they’re performing in that tent across the street. Come on, it’ll be fun for us to watch you, a seasoned professional Blackface Entertainer, perform alongside a bunch of hicks in a small family play.”

The Biggest Bigwig and all the top studio executives now walk across the street and buy tickets at the tent’s entry flap, while I go to the back of the tent, where the auditions are being held.

The family troupe’s lead actress comes out and addresses the five of us who have shown up: “You’re all here to audition for the acting job? OK, I’ll deal with each of you individually. All you need to do is say this one line: ‘I love you’.”

She points to the first man in line. He stretches his arms out and opens his mouth very wide and says: “I – I – I . . .”

The woman claps her hand over his mouth, shakes her head, and says: “Next.”

The next man in line now pulls out of his pocket a deck of playing cards, fans them out and says “Choose one.”

The woman plucks a card and flings it into his face. She then rolls her eyes and says: “Ugh, next. Please try to say the line.”

The next candidate smiles smugly while gesturing to the flower on his lapel, which then squirts out a jet of water. The woman dodges the blast and angrily slaps his face. Then she knocks off his hat and undoes his bowtie.

“For heaven’s sake,” the woman snaps, “can’t any of you just say the line ‘I love you’!? It’s not so difficult!”

I myself am the last man in the group. When she stands before me, I look into her eyes and exclaim the line with genuine feeling.

The woman’s frustration instantly dissipates, and she hugs me. She then clutches my arm and leads me into the tent, cheerfully explaining all that I need to know about my role.

“I’m Bessie; I play the lead,” she says. Yet, when she asks my name, I am afraid to tell the truth, because I’m such a big star on Broadway – my fear is that someone will recognize me – so I make up a lie and say: “My name is Tertius Radnitsky.”

Bessie looks perplexed for a moment. Then she continues with my orientation: “Alright, Tertius, now listen. You’ll be playing a dying soldier. You say ‘I love you’ and then die. Got that?”

“Got it,” I nod.

“OK, give it a try,” Bessie says.

So I place my hands over my heart, where I pretend I’ve been shot, and I take a couple steps forward with difficulty, feigning pain; then I stiffly salute, and fall down on the floor.”

“Great!” Bessie applauds my performance. Then she grabs my legs and pulls me around in a half-circle, and says: “But land so that you’re facing this way.” Then she lies down on the floor next to me, takes me in her arms, and says: “Alright, now say your line.”

I obey, and she instructs again: “Put some feeling into it.” So I repeat very breathily: “I love you.” “Good,” she says.

Then she takes me into the adjacent compartment of the tent, where the costumes are kept. The rest of the acting troupe is in there, dressed as swordsmen and swordswomen. Bessie tosses me a uniform and shouts to the troupe: “Meet our new dying soldier. Please teach him how to put on his makeup.”

§

Now that we are all ready, our play begins:

The stage depicts a battlefield. An army is marching through the background, behind the trees. The flag of the United States appears; the audience applauds. We hear a trumpet and a piano. Two actors emerge from a house. The man raises his arm and shouts to the woman (Bessie): “Goodbye, daughter! The bugles are calling – I am off to the war.”

My fellows from Broadway are in the audience laughing. The Biggest Bigwig remarks to his fellow studio execs: “This is so terrible, it’s great!”

As the actor onstage with Bessie walks away, he says: “Married men make the best soldiers, because they know what war means.”

Bessie’s character folds her hands in ostentatious prayer and murmurs weepily. Just before his exit, the man turns and shouts: “Calm your fears. For one who handles the sword as I do, there is no danger!” Then he disappears offstage. Bessie waves goodbye to him, while drying her tears with a handkerchief.

Now I step onstage in my soldier costume, ready to die. Bessie looks at me with terror in her eyes and whispers: “Not yet! You’re too early!” So I back up and hide behind a tree.

The bigwig and his fellow execs catch a glimpse of me from their place in the audience. “Look, it’s Bryan!” they say, pointing with glee.

I peek out briefly from behind the tree and wave to my friends. Bessie shoots me a mean look. I quickly re-hide.

The next scene depicts Bessie’s character in conversation with a rebel spy, who delivers her some paperwork. He explains that the army is hunting him. She invites the man to take shelter in her house. Then the army marches onstage and confronts her, looking for the agent. She thrusts out her arms and blocks the door of her house. The army then leaves, and the rebel spy comes out and lifts his sword. She hugs him, and the curtain falls.

In the audience, the biggest bigwig nudges his fellow executives and says: “Can you imagine what a sensation this would make on Broadway?”

The curtain rises. There is now fake snow all over the stage. The army tramples across, shooting their rifles. Bessie’s character is standing outside her front door, using a shawl to shield her head. The commander of the army grabs Bessie and attempts to kidnap her, but by the time he has dragged her to the left end of the stage, the rebel spy appears at stage right with his sword held high. Seeing this, the commander drops Bessie and flees with his army. The spy embraces Bessie, then chases after his foe.

Now I step onstage – this time, at the proper moment. I am wearing my soldier’s uniform and holding a U.S. flag. Clutching my heart, I collapse in agony upon the floor. Bessie lies down in the snow and takes me in her arms. I then pronounce my line: “I love you,” and she presses her lips to mine. This kiss leaves me in ecstasy, so I forget to pretend to expire; instead I sigh, rolling my eyes in bliss, and with great feeling repeat my line. Bessie looks right and left in confusion, then kisses me again, hoping I’ll die this time, as planned. I continue to gaze about lovestruck, until I notice her look of frustration; then I convulse and perish. Bessie gently releases my body and says her next line:

“Alas, poor soldier! I did my duty – I kissed him, and he died.”

Now the rebel spy steps back on stage victoriously, holding his sword aloft. Bessie takes my U.S. flag and waves it proudly from side to side. The curtain falls.

The audience applauds. But, backstage, Bessie is furious; she yells at me, saying: “You were terrible – you almost spoiled the whole show!”

I then spring to my feet and clutch my heart and demonstrate collapsing and dying again, and say: “Isn’t that how you taught me? What am I doing wrong?”

She says: “I’ve seen bad actors before, but you’re the worst! You’re fired.”

Out of her own purse, Bessie now pays me the coins that I earned from tonight’s performance. Then she stomps away in rage.

The rest of the acting troupe says goodbye to me, one by one, as they retire to the dressing room.

I stand alone for a moment, thinking about what just happened. Then my friend from Broadway, the Biggest Bigwig, approaches with a wide smile, slaps me on the shoulder and says: “This troupe is so funny! I’m going to make them an offer – they’re just what our revue needs.”

My eyes widen. “Great idea,” I say. But then my countenance falls, and I add: “however, I was fired for being a terrible actor.”

The bigwig and I stand in silent thought for a moment. Then I snap my fingers and exclaim: “I’ve got it! As a stipulation of your offer, you can force them to re-hire me as Tertius Radnitsky, the beginner actor. That will serve as my stage name, when I perform with them; this way, Bessie won’t suspect the truth that I’m already mega-famous. Then, when I do my popular routine, I will use my customary title, which is known all over the world: King Crooner Bryan Ray.”

The Biggest Bigwig smiles widely again as we shake hands and part ways.

§

The Biggest Bigwig now enters the tent compartment where the acting troupe’s manager is in conference with Bessie. The Biggest Bigwig hands them his card and removes his hat. Bessie points to the card as she and the troupe’s manger read it – both of their eyes widen when they realize that this visitor is the Biggest Bigwig of Broadway. Bessie stiffens and offers her hand for the bigwig to shake. “How can we be of service to you, Sir?” she asks.

The Biggest Bigwig now explains to Bessie what he and I conspired about earlier, saying: “I’ve come to make an offer to present your entire company on Broadway.”

The troupe’s manager and Bessie exchange a glance, then they both put forth their hands to seal the deal.

Before shaking, however, the Biggest Bigwig mentions his sole stipulation: “I must insist on having the same cast I saw today.”

Bessie and the acting troupe’s manager smile and hop in place. Then Bessie runs into the next compartment and calls for the other actors. Once they have gathered, she briefs them on the situation before reentering. Then they all assemble themselves proudly before the Biggest Bigwig, who counts them and inquires: “Is this the full cast?”

Bessie assures him that this is their entire troupe.

The bigwig frowns and says: “It can’t be. Someone’s missing.”

Now Bessie gasps and whispers to the manager: “The new guy! I just fired him!” Then she turns and says to the Bigwig from Broadway: “Oh, there is one actor who did not respond to my summons – I will go fetch him.” She pats the arms of the bigwig: “Don’t move.”

I am waiting expectantly in the dressing room. When I hear Bessie’s footsteps hastening toward me, I bury my head in my hands and pretend to be weeping. Bessie bursts through the curtain of the compartment, then stops short when she sees me looking so pitiful. She paces forward gingerly and sets her hand on my back, and says: “Don’t feel bad. I’ve decided to give you another chance.”

Looking up at her with teardrops streaming down my face, I shake my head and answer: “I won’t return unless you increase my pay.”

Bessie is aghast at this response. She scratches her head and thinks for a moment. Eventually she slackens and smiles and nods, and we shake hands to seal the deal.

§

Now Bessie’s Family Acting Troupe travels to New York with me, never suspecting that I, “Tertius Radnitsky,” am already the famous Broadway Star Bryan Ray.

[To be continued . . .]

A thot on dominance

Dear diary,

I’ve heard that all the wealthy computer nerds are trying to invent a way to plant a microchip inside our brain, so that they can read our thoughts and control our bodies directly. I’ve always been fascinated by the debate about free will: do we have it or not? No matter how you answer the question, I’m left puzzled. If we do indeed possess volition, then why does this freedom feel so predetermined? On the other hand, if we are all just miserable slaves to nature, and our actions are but the result of natural laws playing out as they must, then why do I feel like I’m always choosing to behave so ignobly?

I notice that, in each case, I used the word “feel.” Life feels at once predestined and freewheeling. This could be good news: for if the computer nerds do end up chipping our brains, we might like this new shackled mind-life even more than our current “unplugged” existence; all they’d need to do is program us to emote deep joy for our enslavement. Like Hamlet reported about his good friends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, when he sent them off on a mission to get themselves executed: “They do make love to this employment.” It matters not who’s pulling our strings and for what end, as long as we like the dance that we are doing.

Our computer-nerd overlords don’t have the same problem with us that the god Yahweh had with his human slaves in the pleasure garden. For he, the priests assure us, desired for humankind to have the freedom to choose whether to obey or disobey their maker: Yahweh did not want their fealty to be forced. But our computer-nerd overlords are free from such compunctions: if they had been in Yahweh God’s place, they would simply have made it impossible for humans to sin.

Now the chink in the armor of my optimism is that I’m assuming our computer-nerd overlords will care enough to make us feel blissful about obeying them. This is naive of me. Why would a parasite that suffers no remorse when usurping volition care how its host feels about being conquered? These computer-nerd overlords of ours seem, on the contrary, far more likely to preset our feelings to “endless unpleasure.”

The question is: Can you truly take over the mind of another being without yourself feeling that being’s feelings? How can you achieve total mind control without “becoming what you behold,” as it were, since emotions are an integral part of the mind? The answer will probably be that they don’t care if their control is absolute: they only require enough access to our will so that they may compel us to do all their dirty work.

Yes, that’s the rub. They’re not trying to be us; they only wish to move us around. It’s the same relationship that mankind has always established with other animals. A cowboy is not interested in what his horse dreamt about last night; he just needs the beast to trot him to the saloon. And does any keeper care for the wise counsel that his bees are conveying to him through their dancing? No: beekeepers simply grab the honey and run.

Also, think about which came first: the chicken or the egg. (Instead of asking WHY, maybe we should be questioning exactly WHAT crossed the road. And recall that “the other side” is a euphemism for the afterlife.)

Perhaps we already are commandeered by computer-folk. We might not know it, because we’ve been programmed to misremember. But even if this is not the case, one point is certain: Something is operating us, and it ain’t altogether ourselves. To err is human; it is also irreconcilable with intention. Think of anyone, after performing a shameful act, exclaiming “I don’t know what got into me.”

Is this the evidence of a wireless remote control having been employed? No, it just means that volition is incommensurate with reality. If one’s arrow fails to hit the target, it doesn’t necessarily prove that a counterforce willed the shot astray; it could just mean that our aim is off. Nevertheless, as John’s Jesus says, the wind is God, blowing wherever he desires, and constantly at odds with our hopes and dreams.

Why is God such a trickster? That’s a question that I should tackle in a future lecture.

Quick opinion

Dear diary,

I favor mind over body. My reason is this: If you invest in your body, your return is temporal and you serve what is passing, since the body must die; but if you invest in the mind, by means of writing or other forms of art, then your return can be infinite, and you serve eternity, since future minds shall be able to receive ideas, desire, provocation, experience, and so on, from what you have offered.

Text and other art forms survive the demise of the body; so, although the mind is part of the body, each mind can trespass the boundary of self by exchanging influences with other minds. Participating in the exchange of the mental realm has this advantage over the building of physical strength: one’s mind benefits from the past work of other minds; whereas no strongman can transfer his muscles unto another.

This subject of mind-versus-body was my dominant thought today because I recently spoke to some new people – I don’t normally speak to any people, let alone new ones, because I live a secluded existence in a cave on a mountain; but a couple days ago I attended my nephew’s birthday bash, where there was casual talk happening, and by tuning in I learned that people care about the body rather more than they care for the mind.

When I meet new people in the world, I ask them what they like to do. Not what they do for a living: I assume that their career is something evil, so I’d rather not dwell on that; I prefer to focus on the positive, so I ask what activities they enjoy in life. Every new person I asked happened to give the same answer: “I like yoga, and I also like CrossFit.” Now I was familiar with yoga, at least the U.S. version of that discipline, which is defined as “holding poses and breathing,” but I had to ask the first person who mentioned CrossFit to spell it for me, as it was a term that I had never heard before; that’s how I learned that it’s printed as one single word, although the “C” and the “F” are both capitalized: for it is a company’s trademark. My first assumption is that this must have something to do with crucifixion, like tailoring a cross to fit your body type. But it turns out that it’s truly just a brand of (and I quote) “cross-discipline fitness.” It incorporates various aggravating activities, such as weightlifting, jumping and landing.

So we have this underclass of poorly treated agricultural laborers, and then this overclass of competitive fitness freaks. Why can’t the people who love this style of intense physical exertion leave the CrossFit arena and just go work in the fields? It would give far more satisfaction to be interacting with nature, plus the result of all your hard work would be that you feed people. Why stay indoors, in a stinky old gym, when you could be outside in the fresh air and sunshine, helping humanity?

Morningthots about worlds & art & more

Dear diary,

Every new person is a new world. Oneself is a world among other worlds, all of which are encompassed by a shared world. I have a name, you have a name, others have names, but our shared world we just call “the world.” If we gave this world a name, it might cause us to infer that other worlds exist within a super-encompassing world: the world of worlds. That’s why we do not name our world; it would overcomplicate matters. Plus, we prefer to think of our world as the only one, ever: a lone Island of Despair within the nothingness.

And I wonder if there are worlds within oneself. As oneself is a world, are the aspects of one’s inwardness worlds as well? One’s atoms, cells, organs . . . ? How is it that one can vacillate? Where do the different opinions come from, that leave one indecisive? A oneness should not be able to disagree with itself: any wavering in resolve seems proof of at least duality. Perhaps each thought is the voice of a world within. Maybe each of these inner worlds is deprived of a name by its own inhabitants, lest those worlds be compelled to admit that they belong to Bryan, and their exclusivity is only imaginative.

And why does any of this matter? It does not matter. There are no worlds, or there are infinite worlds forever multiplying. What matters is which rap albums are being released next Tuesday. There’s something solid, a fact that one can sink one’s teeth into.

What is art? Is it a reflection of a world, or an expression of a self? Is it an intermediate world existing between worlds while overlapping them? When you read a story and you forget your own life for a spell, the world of the artwork feels more real than reality. Is this feeling false? How dare we call a feeling false? If we cannot trust our feelings, then what shall we follow? Science? But Science is passed out in a field somewhere, drunk off its own sobriety.

I like artworks because they invite me to access other worlds. I like to meet new people, but I prefer to know them deeply; I’d rather avoid all the surface talk. Art gets to the heart of the matter. A song is a world. A painting is a world. A book is a world. I desire to experience these worlds intensely: to listen closely if they are audible; to gaze penetratingly if they are visible; to misread strongly if they are scriptural. I want to know, to become the other self, the alien world. What is weird is good, I welcome what is confusing or difficult: all this means that the acquisition will augment my world greatly. If an artwork is too familiar, that means more of the same, therefore it does not change me much; that is not too bad, but it tends toward the humdrum, and I hunger for exuberance. If it must be monotonous, let it be superlatively so.

So, I seek new worlds, new selves, new thoughts, from works of art. Others seek from art a type of atmospheric tint or seasoning, a background to another activity, a passive accompaniment to the spectator’s reality. Like Satie’s “furniture music,” which is intended to be mingled over. Paintings that match the room’s furniture and that do not assert themselves. Well-behaved pets. Meek, obedient servants that blend in with the surroundings and do not interrupt the action that one is engaged in. Things that are almost entirely ignorable yet which crucially set the mood.

The body of an automobile is a work of art. Does it bear the personality of its maker? How much does it change one’s own self? Were paintings ever as practical as motorcoaches? What about in the days when people still believed in idols and in possession by spirits?

OK, we looked at the car; now let us look at the woman standing next to it. Is she a work of art? I cannot tell if she is a statue carved out of marble or an actual swimsuit model. If she’s a statue, then of course she’s a work of art. If a living human, then it’s debatable. I say humans are artworks. But I don’t believe that God sculpted them. I think they are an example of art dreaming up its own self. Instead of an agent reworking material, material fashioned itself into an artist. A perishable deity.

But, back to our bathing beauty: William Blake writes “The nakedness of woman is the artwork of God.” If a painter paints a nude, using our virgin as a prototype, no believers would deny that it is art. But if the statue starts breathing, and she removes her swimsuit, do we still call that art? A lady just standing there on the display floor at the car show: that is God’s masterpiece? Does she belong in a museum? When she meets death, does someone preserve her body and mount it somewhere, like they do to grizzly bears?

Why does it seem that she must remain still, to qualify as art? Why is movement the dealbreaker? Don’t people label motion pictures art? Yet it’s true that X-rated pornographic movies, which depict adult wives engaged in a tender embrace, are not art: they’re smut. So “smut” means: art that moves. True smut also ideally contains at least two models. A single nude is too artful: people might confuse her with Eve, from the story of the first human woman created by God. You don’t rent a porno film to see the garden of Eden, with that lawyerly snake ruining a sinless existence. No, you rent a porno film to watch Cézanne’s bathers amble about; because the change in motion is what you can’t get from his paintings.

Can a starving person satisfy her hunger by watching a film of another woman eating a sandwich? I think not. The one who is starving will be just as hungry after viewing this film as she was before it started: she will get no satisfaction. But isn’t it strange how the same starving person can watch Cézanne’s pornographic Bathers Movie and obtain sensual satiation, at least erotically speaking? Why is this? Is smut transferable via brainwaves, whereas food requires genuine physical molecules and at least one functional stomach?

And why don’t we yet have a genre of cinema that focuses exclusively on people breakfasting? Cinematographers could work their magic when filming the cuisine, so that it looks extremely appealing; and those who consume it could be likewise shot from the most flattering angles, so that the dining experience would attain the heights of art. My favorite food film is Caviar to the Masses. On the contrary, you, dear reader, have very bad taste; you prefer the trashy, vulgar pictures like Bryan’s Burger Barn.

I’m against any artwork being “about” anything. Like, when they say, “This movie is about angels.” Or: “This movie is about a wooden robot that becomes a supermodel and then yields up its soul to the food-film industry.” On second thought, now that I have given a couple examples, I realize that I have changed my mind: I now am all for artworks being “about” things. I’d like to see both of those pictures that I just mentioned: they sound interesting. I think we should have more movies about angels; I’d like to know more about how they deliver their messages, and who authors them, and how they mate. And someone should film a sequel where these heavenly spirits battle the wooden robot from that other movie, now that its eyes are opened unto morality enough to be able to perceive their con.

But I still say that it’s permissible for an artwork to be about nothing at all. Artworks can wander freely, without aim or purpose; they need not always seem to remain still, like the hour hand on a clock. I disagree with the school of thought that says: Music should have the monopoly on motion. Yet I’m not sure how to respond to those who say: Artworks should not excite desire. It lures me to wonder whether there are different classes of desire: high desire and low desire. I think I like both.