Here’s the next image from my Drawing Prompts book. Each page is blank except for a word or phrase written in its corner, which is supposed to prompt you to draw the listed subject. My recent efforts have been bad because I’m tired of good art. In lieu of an archive, I always link the present to the past. As you can tell by reading the words at the upper left, this latest one (priced at sixteen U.S. dollars, by the way) is called “Something with two heads”.
Dear diary,
It goes both ways, the “queen’s fine robe” phenomenon – what I mean is this: souls can be made to believe that the queen is sporting a fine robe, when in fact she is wholly unclothed (her stylist was neglectful yet persuasive, and the queen was credulous; or perhaps she is in-the-know and merely desirous to show off her form – either way, the populace is compelled to admire a supposed outfit that was not properly tailored) – & on the other hand, the queen can slip into the most exuberant gown, and the populace will never notice it: they lack eyes to see. The queen can sing a magnificent aria, and the populace will never comprehend: they lack ears to hear. Only when an art critic shows up on the scene and exclaims “Beautiful dress! Beautiful tune!” does the average Joe wake up and behold the splendor that was, all along, right in front of his face.
But this idea of “ask and you shall receive” – I don’t trust it. Perhaps I should trust it, but I’ve always instinctively doubted it. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it: I should try it: Maybe beggars can be choosers. — Yet, what would I ask for?
Today I want a small house to replace this lousy apartment. I want my own walls: I don’t want to share my walls with anyone. And I want these walls soundproofed. And I want my yard to be at least three times the width of my house, in every direction, so that I get a modicum of privacy; and I want no grass, only rocky terrain: I don’t want to spend any time upkeeping my pleasure garden: just make the whole thing stony and dry, with plastic flowers not real ones. Let there be carvings of strange beasts in marble strewn throughout. At least one bear, and some statues of humans.
If you had statues of humans positioned outside of your windows, would you often wake at midnight and, upon beholding the statues’ outlines, instantly presume that murderers and thieves are lurking nearby? I know I would. That’s why, in addition to the desert landscaping, I’d have floodlights surrounding the house: so, every single night, the vicinity would be as bright as a ballpark during the World Series Championship.
But I haven’t given the specifics of the interior that I want you to create for me. I’d like the floor to be blue and made of crystal. I’d like a chandelier for my writer’s desk. And no roof: let the temperature be so naturally comfortable that the weather is always welcome to come in and rest. Even if it rains. There will be no cycle of seasons, for all is calm in paradise. No need for changing one’s mind and second-guessing too hot, too cold. And an antelope will live with me voluntarily: she will feel no fear, because I am gentle. When reading my books, I will sit so still that a tiny bird will come perch on the edge of the page, and he’ll study my appearance, jerking his head nervously left right down up, and he’ll watch me and wonder. Then some crows will come and chase the tiny bird away; and the crows will take their place on my desk, and I’ll address them aloud: “I like you crows much better than that tiny little bird. I’m glad you chased him away. You are all welcome here.”
And the four walls of my room would be painted red. There would only be one single room in my house – that’s all I need; that’s all I want. And the paint on these walls is specially formulated so that it never dries: it always appears glossy and wet; and when you touch it, it stains your skin; so whenever you want to smear yourself ruddy, all you need to do is touch the wall.
And the chair will be a strange combination of seemingly opposite traits. It will be as hard as a block of wood or a cube of metal, so that it is sturdy. But it’ll also be soft like a waterbed, so you can recline back and fall asleep in it – it’ll feel like you’re sleeping in the palm of a colossal demon; and it’ll come equipped with a soft heartbeat, to facilitate this illusion.
Ideally, one should toggle between work and sleep: one should work for about fifteen minutes, and then sleep for about fifteen minutes. And all work, when not pleasantly physical, should be reading or writing. But one should read more than one writes. Try to maintain a ratio of, say, four to one: in other words, read four books and then write one book of your own. That’ll keep you from slipping too far into solipsism.
Invite your neighbors over for soirees frequently. Always stress: clothing is optional. Explain to them your theories about the queen’s fine robe. Teach them to open their eyes and ears. The children that you end up begetting upon your neighbors will be raised by the people of Sparta; therefore, don’t worry: don’t be afraid of your neighbors’ bodies. Just keep Sparta alive. Clone it a few extra times, if you like, so as to abate any anxiety over the scarcity of resources. You’ve got vegetables galore, tons of dark green leafy spinach – enough to go around. And the antelope will voluntarily sacrifice itself for your village, so that you can have meat. You’ll all consume fresh meat extremely sparingly.
And when it’s time to die, you’ll know it, because pain will take over: you won’t be able to shout poems at the sun without pausing awkwardly between the words, for there’s a sharp pain in your right lung whenever you breathe; and maybe your stomach is perforated, thus you’re unable to drink strong spirits anymore which are the nectar of the gods. Whatever the case, the point is that pain is like a message from Fate itself: “It’s time to go.” So you call your neighbors over and say: “Let’s do it.” And they’ll administer drop after drop of opium from a liquid squeezy tube, and the whole party will bellow drinking songs together – it’s a blissful scene. And then they’ll burn the house and all your effects and furniture, in one great bonfire. This will be possible because there’s no lawn: remember, the landscape is all mountainous terrain, so it’s like a natural fire-pit (you don’t want to do this in a habitat of highly combustible turf).
And anyone who so desires may leap into the conflagration and meet eternity along with the deceased; for not every death is welcomed by society: some people are so special that their comrades would rather burn themselves alive than continue living in a world devoid of its prince. Even citizens of the adjacent villages, who knew the departed only through his writings, will come and calmly enter the fire.
But once in the furnace, these admiring survivors who are offering up their flesh to our onetime home, which has now become a tomb, will look upon its walls and see the redness glistening under the lick of the flames, and, inexplicably, this sight shall trigger a change of heart: thenceforth our visitors will resolve that the best way to honor the dead is to follow his commandments, which he taught when he was among us: to read one of his books and then write three of our own. (I flipped the ratio on purpose, to escape reason’s trap.)
So we see this mass exodus of souls streaming out from the smoking hut, and they’re all wearing blue mantles like the swain from the end of Milton’s “Lycidas”. (That’s a good poem; I’m glad we keep citing it.) But, for this entry, let’s change the mantle to a robe, so that we can labor one final callback to the queen from the beginning. That way it’ll appear like we had a plan. Then we can end this thing.
P.S.
Here’s yet another track from my ancient rap demo album whose beats all come from the patterns that I found stored on my brother Paul’s drum machine.
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