Tired thots rerunning in place

Here's the next page from my "10,000 DRAWING PROMPTS" book. I made it purposely bad because I'm tired of good art. No actually it's because I'm not inspired to do a decent job. There's no incentive. Or I'm incentivized otherwise. It's just a pic for a stupid weblog, so who really cares. (In case I'm interested, the last prompt appeared on 28 Feb.) This one here, as you can tell from its upper left corner, is called "A view from the top". It's price is five dollars.

Dear diary,

Private or public. Cash, check, credit card... community. Every day, the same troubles.

My country is a game of thugs and dupes. No further options: you’re either a thug or a dupe—that’s it. And I’m a dupe for thinking this, because it’s not a game of thugs and dupes: for you really can build a distinguished citizenry on banknotes alone. Each soul gets propelled to the level of its true worth. Even physics works properly. And, if I navigate years of schooling to get my diploma, I can write the title “scientist” above my name tag; & then I can appear on television for interviews about important topics and preface all my remarks with “Well, I’m a scientist, and I say dot-dot-dot.”

Is poetry not appealing to people? It seems that a large portion of the populace puts up with poetry as if they’re taking their medicine. Rumor has it that medicine tastes bad but it’ll make you well. I assert this as a doctor. And only the unwell need to be made well – Jesus says: “They that are whole have no need of the physician, only they that are sick.” (Mark 2:17) So that proves it. But if poetry is the cure, what’s the illness? Here’s my diagnosis: The present generation is suffering from a surfeit of reason… order… logic… The Tyranny of Science. And I assert this as a scientist.

And as an atheist I would like to say to my fellow atheists: Stop berating religious people for doubting science and believing in crazy things! A soul in drab garb should not mock a well-dressed soul. If anything, the well-dressed soul should mock the non-believer’s rags; but it is much better to clothe those who are naked, and to embellish the dowdy; which is why I, the Emperor of Atheism, do herewith urge my people to aspire toward the fashion of these new clothes of mine, which I stole from the faithful.

...I am a giver of gifts: I like to give, as a friend to friends. Strangers, however, and the poor may themselves pluck the fruit from my tree: that will cause them less shame.

The words of Nietzsche’s Zarathustra (2nd Part: “On the Pitying”).

I don’t like where this entry began or where it’s going, so I’ll switch horses in midstream...

I’m annoyed because yesternoon’s meeting with my boss was an ordeal. Petty and stupid, not worth repeating… he’s a narrowly self-centered bump; that’s the short of it – and I am underrated and misplaced. He & I engage in obnoxious exchanges frequently, so I’m only venting my frustration now, nevertheless our latest spat made me want to quit, to leave this place and find a better life elsewhere. But how can one move away from a dreary path and begin a better career, in the land of freedom and democracy? It is impossible. Pick your poison: indentured servitude or jail.

I’ve already bleated all this before, I’m sure. My life, as reflected in this journal, has become a nightmare of repetition. I remind myself of the man from Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground. Except I’m even less DEEP. I should print out the screens of this weblog and thread them together with twine so that they resemble a book, and title the embarrassment Surface Jottings.

My sweetheart & I recently finished Turgenev’s Sketches from a Hunter’s Album also known as A Sportsman’s Notebook (one of the finest books I’ve ever read, by the way – I say it contends, among all the collections of short stories, for the title of “Best in the Universe”), so we needed a volume to replace it, and my sweetheart chose ol’ Dosty’s Notes, which is new to her but which I’ve read a few times; and every time I read it, I wince at how much I relate to that masterwork’s narrator.

Here now I have to quote yet again this passage from Whitman, apropos of how the abovementioned book leaves me feeling.

Have you heard that it was good to gain the day?
I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.

Now let me just wander away from the subject and flit withersoever, in hopes that mere mental movement will bar further sinking. In physical quicksand, the advice is “Do not move!” because your limbs stir the mix, which sucks you down consequently; whereas psychic traps are Houdini’d by “Keep it movin’!” because it’s all just make-believe anyway, high or low moods.

You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.

(That’s from Wallace Stevens’ “Of Mere Being”.) Also I didn’t get a chance to force it, to wedge it, to pressgang it into the paragraph above, after mentioning my less-than-optimal disposition (the draft file that I created to type these self-pitying sobs into my computer is named GLOOMY ENTRY AFTER EXHAUSTING BOSSDAY), so I’ll plop it here, apropos of nothing (that word “apropos”, which I’ve heretofore used thrice and will attempt to use at least thrice more henceforward, is on my mind because we left off our last daily reading session at the start of Part Two of Notes from Underground, called “Apropos of the Wet Snow”): while scrutinizing the various belongings of the purported homeowner who claims that his neighbor gained entrance to his abode and therein slew himself, in my favorite film Wrong Cops (2013), Officer Shirley Holmes contemptuously exclaims: “Your refrigerator’s depressing.”

Finally: I’m bored, and I constantly do nothing. And writing things down really seems like work. They say work makes a man good and honest. Well, here’s a chance, at least.

That’s the penultimate paragraph from the first part of ol’ Dosty’s Notes (I’m using the translation by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, because I loved what they did with The Brothers Karamazov), and here’s the ultimate:

Snow is falling today, almost wet, yellow, dull. And it was falling yesterday, and it was falling the other day as well. I think it was apropos of the wet snow that I recalled this anecdote that now refuses to be gotten rid of. And so, let this be a story apropos of the wet snow.

OK, so, on Sunday our library copy of Notes was due back, and some other person had requested it, so we couldn’t renew it, which was a problem because this volume is the only one that the system stocks of that particular translation. So, after returning it, we scoured the used book store near our apartment, thinking it would be easy to find a replacement. (Why do I not yet own my own copy of Notes from Underground – this is an outrage!) But, like all stores in the U.S.A., this one carried nothing of value. So, in order to give the above quotations, I had to search out the text online; then, when I found the right version, I noticed a clickable button at the top left of the screen which said “BUY EBOOK – $12.99”; thus, now:

I simply want to yell at the top of my lungs that thirteen dollars is a lot of money: even for a physical book, let alone an electric piece of zip. And poor ol’ Dosty is not yet alive to receive the proceeds. (I’m not sure whether the translators Pevear and Volokhonsky are still with us in Hell.)

Now here’s another diversion apropos of nothing: I’ve recently seen more than one stand-up comedian come to the south and employ a fake southern accent to make fun of southerners. Why do they do this?

Plus Easter is coming up. Rapidly approaching: brace yourself. My family has agreed to meet at my brother Paul’s mansion this Saturday, which, I’m told, is an early date; since, on the official day, he’ll be celebrating with aliens (read: in-laws). I don’t know any of the dates of these holidays, because, as the Emperor of Atheism, I’ve forbidden all forms of fun-fuckery. No rising from the dead for me, thanks. I AM NOT alive in New York & San Francisco. I refuse to resurrect and tread the streets. I’ll absent myself for far more than two thousand years, if believers keep behaving. Forget the bunnies: we’re anti-fertility. Not even free-range chocolate eggs. And no Passover, except the sacrifice: a round of lamb’s blood, on the house, but tell the death angel to stay, step in, hang out: I’ve prepared a meal for him. Don’t be a passerby. We have a vacancy at my inn. Divine evildoers welcome. Pick a manger, any manger. Come and meet my father, Herod—we’ve been expecting you.

*

Is it scarier to know that everything has already happened, so that what’s called existence is just an echo or reverberation in the aftermath of some original catastrophe; OR to know that everything has yet to happen, so that all the pain and misery of life lies up ahead in the future, waiting for us to actuate its catastrophe?

*

I just walked into the living room and saw my sweetheart with her portable computer open on the couch, and when I came near she snapped it shut so that I couldn’t see the screen. Thus I laughed and informed her that there’s nothing she could be doing that would not please me: Even if she racked up hundreds of thousands of dollars of gambling debt, I’d only be relieved, as in that case I’d not feel so guilty for ruining our lives. For I sense that all the blame for our bad situation falls on ME alone, since my addiction to literature assures that we’ll always skirt poverty. So if we were to wind up in the dump on HER account, since she’s so lousy at playing online poker, I’d recline in my nest of old tires and sing slow hymns, thankful that she finally contributed to our devastation. It’s lonely being the only one who’s vile. That’s why the LORD hates idols: nothing imaginable is weird enough for him. Genesis 2:20…

Man created images of cattle, and of the fowl of the air, and of every beast of the field; however, among all these, there was not found an help meet for God.

I like art, tho. As I said, I like art so much that I’ll fail for it, big time. But failing FOR it is less appalling than failing AT art. And the hard thing about competing for a posthumous trophy is that you only get the AT, never the FOR. The only way to judge whether art is successful is if it’s embraced by an audience. And then you can ask: How intense is the embrace; and how brilliant is the audience? A passing squeeze from a slack-witted mob is no triumph. I myself want the sage who lives on Mount Eterne to love my work. But the savior can arrive only on the day after the final day, when it’s beyond too late: those are the rules (see Kafka). So if you’re earnest about art, you’re wise to learn to see success as failure.

Listen to the fool’s reproach! It is a kingly title!

I’ve quoted that before, right? Many times? That’s one of William Blake’s “Proverbs of Hell”—it was on the tip of the tongue of my mind (one says “I see this or that by way of my mind’s eye” so why can’t the mind also possess a tongue?), I say, this maxim was on the tip of my brain’s forked-and-fiery tongue, because I quoted it to my sister just two seconds ago when she sent me a text message via telephone. I had to break from my writing here and look at the goddamned phone screen—I really hate phone screens—and then I lost my train of thought. Here, it’s fun to share these family texts verbatim, so I’ll copy it out… I’m always hoping that someday my sister will see that I’ve exposed her private communications online “for all the world to enjoy” (as the aforementioned Officer Holmes says to Officer Duke, regarding her intention to display Officer Sunshine’s “gay magazine” photo shoot on the wall of the police station’s break room, in that same film Wrong Cops, which is still my favorite movie—& it’s fresh in my memory because I celebrated my recent birthday by re-screening it: I’ve seen it seven times seventy times, to date) and, beholding her heartfelt text message paraded so rudely here on the Internet, even in the slummiest section of the blogosphere, my sister will vow to desist from instant-texting me ever again; thus we’ll be obliged, for any future communication, to speak face-to-face like regular human beings (or Moses and God). So here’s what she wrote:

Bryan can I tell you a story and hear your interpretation of it please?

And I wrote: “Sure, of course! Is it easier to talk in person?” And she answered:

Can I just text you!? Here it is:

I must interrupt at this point, to give an editor’s note: In what follows, the word “steakhouse” is my sister’s nickname for one of the residences of our extended family. Also, “doppelganger” is how she refers to one of our extended family’s individual members—the name stems from the fact that this relative resembles me vaguely; he even shares my birthday; but he’s a decade younger, and handsome and compassionate. Now back to sis’s message:

Mom went to the steakhouse to celebrate the birthday of your doppelganger. When she came home, she told me that she asked Christ…

Another editor’s note: “Christ” is Susan’s term for our in-law who’s a pastor at a Protestant Christian church. And the upcoming phrase “energy vortexes” refers to an aspect of the mystical new-age religious dogma to which my sister adheres.

[Mom] told me that she asked Christ what he thought of energy vortexes – like the ones in Arizona – and he immediately said, “It’s bunk”. And they went on to bash other things of that realm.

(Her word, not mine – I would have written “demesne” instead of “realm”.)

And she said they also mentioned our cousin Lucy Fur…

Lucy Fur, of course, is just another private tag. This cousin shares my sister’s spiritual views, so whatever is said about Lucy applies to my sister as well, in a roundabout fashion. At least that’s how my sister’s mind’s eye sees it.

...they all began discussing how and why Lucy got so off-track. —When I heard this, I literally burst into tears, and my heart felt like it was broken. It just feels so hateful and judgmental of them!!! And they call themselves followers of Jesus.

That’s what she wrote to me. Now I’ll copy my reply… But first I should share a few pics of details from birthday cards that I got in the mail over the past 365 days. I got a total of two birthday cards this year. The reason I receive so few is that everyone who cares about me knows that I abhor birthdays. To celebrate the anniversary of one’s imprisonment is an abomination. So the two cards that I got are from my mom, and my sweetheart’s parents. You will note that, in my own glorious handwriting, I listed on the inside of each card the gifts that came with it, as an aid to help me remember, when I write my thank-you letters, what the heck these people gave me.

Here’s the outside of the card from my biological mother:

& here’s the inside:

& here’s the exterior of the card from my in-laws:

& my in-laws’ interior:

OK now I’ll share another specimen from my half-empty trash bag of never-before-released rap/hip-hop demos. But I’ll do that in the postscript. First I’ll end this with what I wrote back to my sister’s above-quoted instant-text onslaught, to be fair and shame myself as well.

I’m with you: I don’t think L’s off-track, & I have long taken the opposite stance of that type of judgmental Xianity; but I think that the stronger soul should help the weaker, so I’m always wishing we could have more conversation with Xians like that, for the sake of enlightenment. I wish they believed in me (& you & Luce) but if they want to disapprove, that’s their prerogative. At least they’ve never told us directly that we’re not allowed our opinions. And at least they don’t physically threaten us.

& here, after that last word us, is where I quoted the Blake proverb that I told you about near the middle of this entry. (Listen to the fools reproach! It is a kingly title!) Then my sister replied “I don’t understand what that proverb means. Can you explain?” So I wrote:

I take it as urging any soul who’s been censured by a judgmental jerk to feel honored rather than insulted, because those who are wrongheaded mistake the high for the low; so if a fool—a false judge—calls your views “bunk”, this indicates the contrary: your views are likely VALID, for the same reason that pigs mistake pearls for corn: Swine discard such valuable gems as rubbish simply because they’re too hard to bite.

Then I added:

Afterthought: I fear that I come off as bland & aloof here, because I’m far more cautious when responding by text over the phone. But it appeals to me to get together in person, to mull things over; and if we can get Mommy Dearest or any of the other fine players to attend our rehearsal, the more the merrier – that’s my vote. If this topic can bring you to tears, then you obviously care deeply about it; and so do I: I’ve practically ruined my LIFE in pursuit of spirituality! We should all be closer: that’s my 2 cents… So keep in touch; stay strong!! & remember: “Every thing possible to be believed is an image of truth.”

Don’t you like how I ended that with another proverb from Blake? Well, apparently Susan either understood this last saying fine, or she was too tired to deal with me further, because she never answered. But we’ll argue on Easter.

P.S.

In ancient times, I made a rap demo album called Happy Songs of Love. It boasted a decalogue of mega-tracks; but I never shared it with anyone, so nobody heard it till now, almost 15 years later. Did it age well? No. But you can decide for yourself, you false wrongheaded fake judgmental jerk: for below is one sample track from the thing. (I’ll share the rest piecemeal with each upcoming blog post, as is my habit, because uploading rap demos really seems like work; and they say that work makes a man good and honest.)

https://bryanray444.tumblr.com/post/172289891561/a-rap-track-from-my-2004-demo-tape-happy-songs-of