Some objects are bright orange in reality but appear ham-colored when photographed.
Dear diary,
Why is your religion right and my religion is wrong? Why does it have to be that way? Why can’t I be right and you be wrong? Or why can’t we both just be right? (Or both wrong—that’d be fun; admit it.)
Yesterday I heard a woman assert that certain things are beyond the sway of opinion: “For instance,” she argued, “two plus two is not five.” And then everyone in the audience chuckled. For there was an audience that was drinking in this wisdom. But how do we know that the assertion is correct? Isn’t it true that none of us knows anything?
Now I imagine a guy named John—let’s say his name is actually Saint John—who explains to me: “We know that two plus two is not five because everyone in the world agrees that—”
But here I interrupt John and shout: “My parents always taught me to be skeptical of any claim that is backed up by arguments like yours—for you say ‘We know this because everyone agrees that blah-blah-blah’ and here is where my mom & dad would ask sarcastically ‘Well if everyone in the world were jumping off a bridge, would you follow them to your demise as well?’”
Then Saint John squints and replies: “I’m almost persuaded—now tell me: Who are these parents of yours?”
And I answer truthfully, “My parents are Jesus and Mary, not Douglas and Rita.” And then John admits, “Well if Jesus and Mary are jumping off the bridge, then count me in: Two plus two IS five.”
My point is that it matters a great deal what WORD we all agree to allow to denote the digit that comes after the middle finger, when we’re counting on our hands. If we say “One… two… three… NOT FIVE,” then the above argument will be rendered only half-absurd; whereas if we say “One… two… three… INFINITY,” indicating that every amount beyond the first three numbers is simply MANY; the sequence is ONGOING and thus impossible for the mind of man to grasp other than by way of these vague, vast, sloppy, symbolic brush-strokes; then the same argument will be rendered only half-absurd.
But we will own the attractive half of absurdity, in either case. At least presumably. (The unthinkable alternative is that our half proves unattractive.)
And I hate the idea of verifiability. Once a thing becomes verified, I lose interest. I hate evidence; I hate when witnesses claim to know facts; and I hate when testimonies match up. I only like when we—you and I—are walking thru the forest and chance upon a glade that contains two corpses: one is John, the same saint from the above dispute, and one is a grizzly bear. The bear is headless, and the saint has a wounded abdomen.
Now we—you and I—take turns envisioning what brought about this outcome; what series of events might have led to this display. You say: “A grizzly bear is out hunting with his rifle. Suddenly John the Holy Saint springs out of a bush. Startled by this, the bear aims and shoots Saint John in the belly. But, before succumbing to his bullet wound, John wildly lunges at the bear: he clamps his jaws down on the bear’s skull, bites it off and swallows it down. The headless bear falls backward and dies. John sinks to his knees; the blood from his stomach has formed a pool beneath him; he lifts his eyes to heaven and cries, ‘Abba, gospelist, why have you forsaken me!’ Then he gives up the ghost.”
And all the while you’ve been relaying this tall tale, I’ve been painting on a canvas with oil-based paints; so now I turn the picture around and reveal my masterwork:
It is a portrait of us—you and me—at the scene of the crime; I am turned towards you with an earnest look on my face; my arms are extended, and my hands are gesturing intensely, as if I’m arguing a case in the court of law. The majority of the painting is dominated by a large speech bubble containing the following legend:
The headless bear arose from the volcano [there is a hill spewing lava in the background] and slashed its claw at Saint John, ripping open John’s womb; for the beast supposed that John should bring forth its head, in the fullness of time. And, lo, through the gash in John’s belly appears the eyeball of a grizzly, looking round at the world that has opened out before it.
*
Sorry this post was kinda gruesome and grotesque. Also tedious at the beginning. I’m just killing time again by writing aimlessly. I’m waiting for contractors to show up, and that gives me nervous energy, which demands to be spent (preferably stupidly). We’re almost finished working on this apartment; we have just three service calls left, to satisfy the requests that the buyer made after the inspection. This morning we have an appointment to get our whole-home humidifier serviced. Then tomorrow we have an appointment to get our water softener serviced. And sometime soon a technician should be stopping by to install an electric outlet. So I gotta stop here, otherwise I won’t have time to ride my bike today. Bye for now!
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