This is not about Eduardo

My last effort was awful because I hate to draw with a ballpoint, so I tried again; and again I failed — here's the next page from my book of 300 Drawing Prompts. (The last appeared on April 10.) This one's prompts were "Compass" and "Comet".

Dear diary,

Well, it’s two days after the April storm, and everything has already returned to normal. The snow’s all melted; and every tree branch that fell in the yard has been picked up & reattached. (Our whole yard was cluttered with fallen branches: it looked like the clippings from a massive haircut.) And the floor in our upstairs front room and hallway is finally installed. And our sink now works: it doesn’t leak at all. The windows have all been replaced — they’re now firm with tight seals — the house is practically soundproof! All the doors got changed out. The grade of our land is fixed, so now rain drains away from the basement instead of towards it... & the interior trim & all the baseboards are fresh & elegant. Even the standard black plastic newspaper tube underneath our mailbox no longer droops. Our former hybrid car is now fully electric: you can’t even hear it when it’s running down the road; it just swishes past, like a water snake on the river.

Our car also bites pedestrians and shocks them with static. It wraps around them and hugs them until their spine cracks. It really hates pedestrians, especially joggers.

Did you ever notice how jogger’s faces are always beet red? They all look like they’re so miserable. Why do you do this to yourselves, O joggers and runners? Do you think you will win the marathon? Why do you even commit to participating in marathons? They’re entirely voluntary, & there’s zero reward whether or not you finish. Besides, I own an electric car, so you’re guaranteed to lose; moreover you’ll get shocked in the process & humiliated & killed. No one ever wins in a marathon.

And I just learned that our neighbors across the street have a TV in their garage. Not an old boxy black-&-white thing from the 50s; I mean they mounted a giant flat-screen to one of the walls. And they leave the garage door open whenever they’re home. To each his own, I guess; but I wouldn’t want to watch any operas in my garage. Garages stink; there’s gasoline and oil stains, and wet wood. I guess that’s OK if you’re watching sports, like volleyball or chess. But I prefer operatic melodramas over any contest. There’s no suspense to a contest — it’s obvious that the guy with the electric car shall win. But a melodrama is like plain family-life pumped up on steroids; so all the normal things that always happen every day, like mowing the lawn or retrieving the mail, get enhanced to the point where they’re exceedingly interesting:

For instance, say you mow your lawn in Minnesota. It’s a dull task that must be performed every day. Your yard is rectangular, and the grass is kept at a uniform length of three centimeters. On a regular day, you’d start at one end and mow widthwise until you reach the other border; then rinse & repeat. But in a melodrama, your mower is fully electric: it’s push-style, with the name “Duchamp” painted in cursive across its forecastle, because that’s what you named it; and it glides in silence, except for a pleasing, tingly hiss, like a cataract of scythes, which is the result of its blades be·slashing the leaves of grass. And, of course, as the Proverb of Hell by William Blake always sez:

The cut worm forgives the plow.

So mowing your lawn in a melodrama is not a chore but rather a dance. You get about a quarter of the way across the yard, when, lo: a gorgeous woman appears in the heat of the day. She addresses you in a soft, sweet voice, saying “Here: take one of these cruses of ice and spirits, and let us rest ourselves under this tree.” And you spend the afternoon in the shade, reciting poetry. And she plays the zither.

But soon Carmen’s husband arrives in his loud combustion engine; for this is a melodrama, therefore woe must ensue. And Mr. Cansino cries: “What is this? What is going on here? Why do I return home, after a hard day of laboring at the river of Chebar, to find my wife reclining in the shade of this sycamore, dressed as if for an evening ball, in Bryan’s yard, spell-chanting & zither-plucking!?”

And the appearance of Mr. Cansino’s car is as follows. Its hull curves outward and then tapers toward to a pointed seam at the keel, under which are four straight wings: each one projecting just above an amber panel that shields its respective hold (for the contraption has many holds, as its system of rudders necessitates multiple pilots, who need storing like cargo); & their appearance resembles burning coals of fire, because they are situated adjacent to the pistons, which appear as lamps, on account of how fast they are moving: they go up and down like happy living creatures; and their fire is bright, and out of the flames goes forth lightning.

And there are more pilots at the rear of the engine, round about the quarterdeck; and they have the appearance of brightness as well.

Then at the top, in the raw part of the vehicle, where the smoke billows up, is the captain’s standing-throne. This is where Cansino himself resides. Using a series of levers to manipulate the engine’s extremities (the appendages from the glassy center section), he puts forth the form of an hand, and lifts me by a lock of mine head: holding me thus between the earth and heaven, my gaze is lured inside the front top panel, to the door of the inner gate that looks toward the northwest; where a freeze-frame projects the memory of the contraption’s perception — a fresco mural of Carmen on the plain — which provoked Mr. Cansino to jealousy just a moment ago.

And this engine that he drives is very noisy, like I said. It’s not quiet like my electric car or my lawnmower. Cuz it’s a gas guzzler. Not that I have anything against gasoline — I’m not trying to make this diary entry into a plea for Ocasio-Cortez’s “Green New Deal” — seriously, you can drive any car that you like; I really don’t care.

“Do whatever you want. I don’t give a fuck.”
—Officer Duke, from Wrong Cops (2013)

I’m just trying to say that, because it’s powered by gasoline, this engine that transports Mr. Cansino is noisy. Not just because of the controlled explosions in the pistons, but I even found the roar of its wings annoying, when it was hovering there; cuz they must keep turning & finning back & forth, like arms treading water.

And the sound of the loudspeaker, which transmits the voice of speech from the captain’s throne so that its occupant can be heard over the din of the engine (not to mention the constant racket of its army of pilots, who never stop hollering directions & coordinates to each other from within the beast’s belly) is of the quality of those old amplification systems employed in political rallies, like the one used by Charles Foster Kane to make his speech when he’s running for governor, in the movie Citizen Kane (1941).

CODA

& it came to pass, that Moses sat alone to judge the people. And when his friend Bryan saw that he was judging the people, he said: “Dear Moses, what is this thing that thou doest to the people? why sittest thou thyself alone in judgment?”

& Moses said unto his friend: “Because the people come unto me to enquire of God.”

& Bryan said to Moses: “The thing that thou doest is not good.” And he continued his speech, saying, “Hearken now unto my voice, I will give thee counsel, and God shall be with thee: Be thou for the people to God-ward; but let the people judge the people.”

& Moses hearkened to the voice of his best friend Bryan, and did all that he said. (Exodus 18:13–24)