28 June 2015

The actual entry starts here

Dear diary, I don’t mind pedaling hard when biking uphill. – That’s a lie: I hate engaging in any physical effort, even if it’s the act of lifting a pen; so please take charge and compose this entry for me.

Obligatory image

You will flood the rest of this notebook page with words, after I share these flowers that I plucked from a birthday balloon:

Oops, that was a picture of wigs on a cross – a still frame from Luis Buñuel’s L’Âge d’or. I like Wikipedia’s audiovisual description:

“To the accompaniment of jovial music, the scalps sway in the wind.”

…But here’s the real image that I wanted to share; you can tell that it’s correct because its metallic flowers emit the fragrance of Mylar:

The actual entry starts here

I saw my mom and my sister today. At first, I planned on visiting them in the motor coach that I share with my rent-a-sweetheart; but, at the eleventh hour, I decided to drive my tricycle to the event.

It was a long trip, for me. I am only accustomed to coasting leisurely up and down our driveway. This mission required me to put on my game face.

The path that I chose to take featured hills as green as England’s, which inclined both up and down at exactly the same pitch. It was a marvel. The upwards parts, as I mentioned, were more than tedious; but the downhill parts were enjoyable, for countless reasons.

So I arrived at my destination and found my sister living in a replica of Seinfeld’s apartment. It is located directly above the old art-house cinema that I frequented as a teen (I viewed Cries and Whispers there, although my new favorite film is Wrong Cops).

How my mother managed to parallel park

My mom is afraid of driving. Her vehicle has a TV screen embedded in its dashboard which displays an ever-changing picture of outdoor reality. I call it Angel Vision. In spite of this, my sister was required to come out from her apartment and take my mom’s place in the fuselage, to land the contraption.

Entry, cont.

Eventually we luncheoned at a deli. She who crafted our sandwiches was soft-spoken but very friendly and helpful. My thoughts, while eating, were as follows: Turkey birds were dropping from avian flu, the last time that I checked.

Wotan’s day was the anniversary of my mother’s birth, so my sister presented her with a pair of wax candles that, when burnt, exude the smell of righteousness. Also hand soap: pine cone scented hand soap. (I drank gin during the formalities.)

At a crucial moment of the afternoon, my mother pointed out that a gold cord was connecting my sister’s flatscreen to an oblong device. This device, we learned, was a modem that was doubling as a router.

I wonder if the beings who currently live in futurity comprehend what humans mean when we use the term Internet. Maybe they assume that it refers to a portable audio center for diesel mopeds. Or maybe the dinosaurs will return from their vacation and admonish us for our “slanderous talkie pictures.”

The rest of the entry

While we were walking around Lake M, we saw a man who was holding a fishing pole without any line. As we passed, this man greeted us; so we returned his greeting. Then he said: “Thank you ma’am sir.” (He really did say “ma’am sir.”) But I forgot the actual name of the lake, so I called it “M” as in Fritz Lang’s M.

Just so you know, on my way home from visiting my mom and my sister, I stopped by the local library and picked up a couple of books that they were holding for me. Henry James novels.

P.S.

My favorite part of our noontime conversation was when we began to discuss the idea of marriage. I am pro-love. My goose and I paid a retired judge thirty U.S. dollars to bind us legally (two tens and two fives); and the fellow interrupted his own ceremony to scold us for not being in church. It was hard to hold my tongue, on that occasion.

In The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, William Blake writes the following note about John Milton, regarding that poet’s epic Paradise Lost:

Note. The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels & God, and at liberty when of Devils & Hell, is because he was a true Poet and of the Devils party without knowing it.

On the social network officially codenamed Fiendster, I happen to be connected with many members of churches that I formerly attended (I no longer visit any church, by the way – nowadays I campaign solely for the Devil); so my news feed is heavily plagued by churchy outbursts. Now let me tell myself one thing in relation to this fact:

After the recent U.S. Supreme Court ruling on marriage, I saw a high number of angry statements posted online by churchgoers. Although I knew that these people were opinionated about this topic, the bloodlust of their vitriol surprised me: it sounded as though they were yearning for Armageddon.

Jesus never uttered a single word against same-sex marriage. (I mention Jesus not only because I like him but because he is the church’s deity.) Moreover, Jesus said nothing against premarital intercourse. Jesus even thwarted his own heavenly father’s “law” when it prescribed capital punishment for adultery.

The only marital issue that Jesus frowned upon was the act of re­marrying after divorce. And that’s one of the parts of his teaching that I disagree with.

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