Here's the next page from my book of 67 Drawing Prompts. (The previous page debuted just III days ago!) This present photo-realistic drip-painting's prompt was "Labyrinth".
Dear diary,
The reason I chose not to write an entry here today is that I woke up thinking about politics; & long ago I vowed to abstain from writing about politics ever again; but I can’t think of anything else to write about. Every day I wake up and feel impatient with the world, because people are homeless & naked & starving & sick & in pain; meanwhile certain people have power to move heaven & earth, yet these latter folks let everything remain untenable.
The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of the US having to reckon with reparations for slavery. I was born strongly liking this idea; & with every day that passes, I love it more.
It seems to me that slavery is the ultimate goal of our modern system: the one that has pretty much totally engulfed the globe. Money money money. And the highest accomplishment for this way-of-doing-things would be for us all simply to accept the buying and selling of human beings. It’s already being done; it has never stopped; but the general public hasn’t cozied to the notion, at least not officially by appending its signature to the deed and allowing it to be politely finessed…
So certain people bought people, or they stole people from elsewhere and used these people like machines. Pounded upon them and worked them to death. (Some people treat machines even better than they treat people.) So these people who enslaved people then got rich, because it takes a real go-getter to make a profit when you can own other people as personal property. Yet eventually these now-rich people-owners were informed by their friends & family that their realm of expertise was falling out of fashion. So they had to give up overt people-ownership. But were they required to return all the loot that they scored from this scam?
I think the former owners just kicked all their ex-employees out of the house & said “Good luck, suckers! Try to survive on your own; I’m keeping all the money & purchasing a media conglomerate or six, to ensure that my good name remains revered.”
It’s easier to tolerate an epidemic of homelessness than to watch a single bankster have to downgrade the style of car that he owns.
But I like rich people. I’m speaking for myself now, Bryan Ray, not the rest of humanity. My brother Jesus didn’t admire the rich very much. He couldn’t find it in his heart to forgive them from setting up shop inside his father’s temple. What a fool. Doesn’t he understand that the very cause of the temple’s holiness is the rich folk who occupy it? The rich look better, because they dress in finery. The rich smell better, because they wear perfume. The rich even speak better (they have all the best words) because they’re Ivy-League educated.
What’s with that word “ivy”? I’ve always wondered that: Why “ivy”? Let’s open the dictionary and find out. Ivy League (noun): a group of long-established colleges & universities in the eastern U.S. having high academic & social prestige; e.g.: Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Columbia, Dartmouth, Cornell, Brown, and the University of Pennsylvania.
OK but what does that have to do with the word “IVY”? Oh, now I see: Origin, 1930s: with reference to the ivy traditionally growing over the walls of the university buildings.
Alright so I guess my own personal education was Brick League. Or Gray Gypsum League.
What was my true history, by the way? (You don’t have to answer that, actually: you can just pretend... make something up...)
My True History
I was born on a farm in the woods. I was born in the hunting industry, near an oak tree. My father’s name was Katie, let us say.
I wanna raise birds. Not little songbirds but big turkey vultures. I wanna brave the winter by hiding in a snowbank, and then come out in the spring when the turkey vultures are returning from their migration. (Do turkey vultures migrate?) I’ll cast seed for them to eat. I’ll do my broadcasts nightly, to fatten them up.
I’ll steal hunters, and cage them.
HUNTER HUNTER
The first thing you do when you catch a hunter is to pluck away his firearm. Otherwise he’ll be able to retaliate. Then make sure that your criminal justice system favors YOU, the hunter of hunters.
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I seriously do like hunters tho, even tho they don’t smell as nice as rich people. As I established yesterday in my entry where I spoke about the olfactory characteristics of two-part epoxy adhesive, the worst aroma of all is aquamarine. But hunters don’t smell like aquamarine, unless they’re hunting sea-life, in which case we’d dare not call them hunters but rather fishermen.
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I want an enclosure that mimics my natural habitat. What would that be exactly? In other words: What is my natural habitat? I was born in the woods, and I grew up on a farm, and I am a sportsman; so you’d think that my natural habitat would be the outdoors. But I’m pretty much a homebody. What does this signify? What can science conclude from this aberrational datum? Should we say that our patient is perverse, or that our patient has evolved?
Afterword
I’ve always been fascinated by those people who purchase a snake from a pet store, and then, week after week, they must return to that very same pet store to purchase bundles of mice, which they feed to their snake. And the natural habitat of snakes is a glass box lined with paper shavings.
So I’ve learned to enjoy pacing back & forth in my jail cell, instead of wandering around the forest & shooting at the mothers of baby deer. Does this mean that my zoo no longer merely mimics but in fact now constitutes my natural habitat?
Benefits for Early Investors
As outlined above, I’m interested in synthesizing deluxe freedom precincts for zoo-born hunters. Each shall have various classes of drugged humans loitering near its backdrop, ripe for enslaving.
Yearly, each enclosure will raise exactly 7,000 pheasant chicks and 40,000 chucker partridges. (Our inmates will all receive avian ankle-tags.) The effects of winter can be suggested by having one of our engineers manipulate the freezer dial; thus, on the coldest days, the “birds” can be expected to puff out their feathers & hunker down to stay warm. There will be nooks & vacancies manufactured to cower within. And our trained veterinarian staff will pretend to go to extra lengths to ensure the health of the human hunters. I’ll have them erect wind barriers around the shooting ranges, & we’ll hold the inmates up at arm’s-length, in the skyey portion of the stockade, during economic downturns (depressions & recessions).
Mock-diseases will even be shipped in from abroad, to help facilitate the illusion of peril.
But the one thing that our clinic will never do is try to “play God”, because that costs money. I mean, think about it. Any comfort that you afford your spoils will only soften them: make them wimps. My goal is not to crush all prey beneath the boots of our hunters, but only to administer enough pressure so that they feel the…
Sorry, I don’t usually break down & weep like this while delivering my sales pitch; but it’s an emotional time for our firm: I can’t believe the original “day-old hunter” is now retired at age 63. (This hatchery was definitely the answer to getting me the hell away from politics.) Now our hunter is pregnant with a Katie of his own—this aspect of the scam is too often overlooked: It’s basically a place where fathers can just be fathers. I’ve heard that there’s a separate area where they keep all the lone begotten sons. That’s the way to do it. Otherwise it causes conflict. That’s where you’ll find your sausage, jerky & sticks. Gift packs shipped. (And seasonal sweet corn.) Plus every 24-hour period, we have this thing that rises, called “the sun”, which is basically a predator-control device for nocturnal geniuses. (I fuckin’ HATE that thing.)
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