Here's a painting where I combined real felt-tip marker swirls with computer-generated or "synthesized" marker swirls. Do you like it? (I don't.)
Dear diary,
The reason I named this entry “Things I’m having a difficult time accepting” is that life has become a forked path with arrow-shaped signs pointing in either direction, both reading “Evil”; and it’s my job to guess which one is the best doom to choose.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other . . .
That’s the beginning of “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost. The poem is famous, so everyone knows the ending: The poet claims that he chose the road “less traveled by”, and that this choice gained him respect in the eyes of mankind. No, actually that’s not what he says — he says simply that having chosen the lesser-trod path “has made all the difference.” So is that good or bad? And does the title of the piece refer to this road that he took? No, the piece is called “The Road NOT Taken.” So maybe it’s a meditation on semi-erroneous guessmanship. Maybe the poet possesses the luxury of a regret for having rejected the popular path. As the good Lord said, It’s my way or the highway:
Enter ye in at the strait gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat: Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it. (Matthew 7:13-14)
So actually that’s more like saying: It’s the highway or Yahweh. (To land this joke, one must pronounce that last word “YAH-WAY”.) But I’m trying to say something more like: All roads lead to disaster. Cuz here’s my dilemma:
I want to please my neighbors and fulfill the duties that are expected of an average citizen; but also I want to dedicate my energies to the Poetic Genius, which I worship in lieu of God (for I am an atheist); but my life has funneled to a point where I must deny the former for the sake of the latter, or deny the latter for the sake of the former — it’s like those ultimatums that kidnappers compose upon postcards, the characters of which are not handwritten but rather cut out and collaged from magazines: “Either make your monthly payment of mortgage-plus-interest, or your dog Toto dies.”
What I’m trying to say is that I cannot accomplish all the house repairs necessary to render me a responsible citizen in the eyes of my neighbors, without dedicating my life to physical handiwork. So that would be tantamount to abandoning the Poetic Genius, which, in my religion, is worse than bowing to an ancient Babylonian idol.
Nebuchadnezzar spake and said, “Is it true, O Bryan, that you do not serve my War God Jehovah, nor worship the image of Christ which I manufactured? I warned you before that you should make yourself ready, so that when you hear the sound of the cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, and dulcimer, and various types of computerized instruments playing the musick of our national anthem, you’d better fall down and worship the Flag and our Gold Colossus. Unlike that outdated Copper Colossus, which symbolized the welcoming of migrant strangers, this New Golden Colossus depicts the Lamb of God upholding twin towering tablets that feature graven images of the Ten Commandments. This signifies that we are a nation of Rules, not Forgiveness; not Love but Law & Order. If you refuse to enlist in this Militant Christian Patriotism, you shall be cast the same hour into the midst of that burning fiery furnace known as Hell. Now why would you want to end up in eternal damnation? I can’t understand why you don’t just acquiesce and become a party member — why continue to hold out? Do you really believe that studying the humanities is going to benefit you in the long run? Who is this God of the Atheists, this ‘Poetic Genius’, that recklessly promises to deliver you from evil?”
(Daniel 3:14-15)
Again, my point is that I could spend my days reading scriptures and writing nonsense; thus my house will continue to look drab, and my lawn will remain ugly and overgrown with weeds, and eventually my neighbors will lose faith in my righteousness: they will scoff at me and hiss every time they encounter me in the marketplace.
Therefore neglecting lawn- and house-care is not an option. Yet, on the other hand, if I perform the requisite upkeep of my manor, no time shall remain for me to goof off and write words.
I assumed that by opting to remain childless, I’d free up enough time and money to pursue THE ART LIFE. But our age, our eon, our epoch is so loan-sharky, so casino-esque, that there’s nothing that one can do to avoid disrepute. It’s a beat’em-or-join’em existence, minus the “beat’em”. In this respect, the “Preacher-king of Israel” was right:
The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun. Is there any thing whereof it may be said, “See, this is new?” Nope: it hath been already of old time, which was before us. There is NO remembrance of former things; neither shall there be ANY remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after. (Ecclesiastes 1:9-11)
So that explains why I’m writing exclusively to the future, and why I call this weblog a diary. Cuz nobody’s reading it now, and nobody’s ever going to read it then (spoiler alert: humankind goes extinct). It is therefore as private and fruitless as daydreaming. In fact, it’s like thinking outside of your own damned head. (It’s pretty fun.)
But I gauge that this present composition has soured into a whine-fest. I have only one thot on my mind: that I must recommence my journey of home-repair, impossible to complete and yet equally impossible to avoid. I’m not willing to tarnish my community and become a blemish upon the face of my neighborhood, by refusing to tart up my residence. Jehovah hand-fashioned me out of silt for just one purpose: to maintain my log shack and its square plot of weeds.
And the LORD God formed Bryan from the dust of the ground, and instilled in him the breath of life, by way of cardiopulmonary resuscitation; and Bryan became a living soul. Then the LORD God took Bryan and put him into the garden of Eagan (which was rather a wilderness), to dress it and to keep it. The joke was that nothing could ever grow there, and his house was unrepairable. This scheme is known, among the gods, as the “Impossible Mission”; its primary function is to initiate the process of Sin, so that Hell may be fed. (Genesis 2:7, 15)
So I guess I’ll seek for some unhappy medium — an amount of time that I can dedicate to remaining last, not only in this race of Good Housekeeping, but also to hold that place among practicing Poets. As long as you don’t leave the track and wander out of bounds, you remain registered as an official participant. (I don’t wanna end up as one of those fellows who cries “I coulda been a contender” from the rear seat of a horseless buggy.)
Yes, I’ll compromise all around. Then maybe when I’m dead my soul won’t make the mistake of coming back. I want to learn this lesson once and for all; brand it upon the brain of my spirit-being: DO NOT RETURN TO EARTH VIA METEMPSYCHOSIS REBIRTH TRANSMIGRATION RESURRECTION OR SAMSARA. In other words: Avoid getting “born again”; and shirk the beguiling trap of kenosis: don’t let them lure you into being “born from above”. I say: If you commit a crime in the spiritual realm, be smart and don’t get caught. You cannot afford to do more time in the clink.
*
But that was pretty amusing, plagiarizing Daniel; so I think I’ll end this thing with more from his book — from the same third chapter. I’ll take it from where I left off, at verse 16:
And Bryan sassed back at the king: “O Nebuchadnezzar, I wanna be very careful when answering you, in this matter; cuz I know you’ve got me under surveillance: my phone is tapped and you’re always looking for ways to throw me in the lions’ den. So let me just say this: If my God — that is, the Poetic Genius whom I serve — is able to deliver me from your fiery furnace of Hell, which is this present world’s finance system, the privatization / corporatization of everything — and THE ART LIFE will somehow safely store me just beyond thy reach, O king my prez, then I dare to make this taboo sign with my hand — look here: this is the most offensive gesture ever to be made by the living hand of a mortal — I hold it up in defiance, right in the face of your Flag and your tablet-toting God-lamb; I even offer it unto the ultrasound Photo of the Fetus, that most holy symbol that you pretend to weep over hourly (so as to trick us lower-class fools into bearing more flesh for your endless wars: the age-old sacrifice to Moloch, which term, the same as “Christ”, is a synonym for King, just as BAAL means LORD)... But now I’ve lost my train of thot: suddenly I forgot what I was reprimanding you about, Mr. President. And I need to pee — is there a lavatory nearby?”
Then Nebuchadnezzar in his rage and fury answered, “The powder room is down the hall — first door on the right.”
And when Bryan returned, he continued his speech, and said: “But all that stuff that I was talking about before, such as refusing to comply with your idol worship and Christian nationalism with all its warmongering and the Empire Maintenance Plan, I hereby declare, O dearest king, that if all those ideas are really and truly important to you, and you genuinely do believe that you’re on the right track, then I will repent and serve thy gods: I will turn from my stubborn stance of purity & integrity, quite gladly in fact (it’s kinda annoying to be always adhering to the dictates of one’s superego), and I will honor the golden image that thou hast erected. No problem at all. I’d rather save my life and cooperate with you, so as to establish detente among my neighbors, by following the social norms that you’ve recommended, than to make a big stink about honor and genius and art. If it’s OK with you, I’m gonna pour myself a glass of wine right now.”
Now was Nebuchadnezzar full of fury, and the form of his visage was changed against the prophet Bryan; for he did not believe Bryan, and he assumed that Bryan was just fucking with him; he could not conceive that a prophet might be seriously willing to convert and to abandon his deity for the sake of repose: so the king spake, and commanded that the U.S.A. and its allies (if it still has any) should join his nation of Neo-Babylon in upping the thermostat on the Infernal Furnace one whole notch beyond where it was safe to be positioned — just like Nigel from Spinal Tap (1984), whose amplifier’s knob, instead of stopping at the usual number ten, goes all the way to eleven. And Nebuchadnezzar pressed the “Send” button on an email addressed to all the most mighty angels that were serving in his army (which was existence’s most well-regulated militia) to bind Bryan and to cast him into the lake of fire and brimstone, down on the ground floor of Hell, below its basement, where the beasts and all the poets & prophets go. There they shall remain delighted with the enjoyments of Genius; which to Angels look like torment and insanity, as Blake always sez. And they shall all be thus “tormented” day and night, for ever and ever. (Revelation 20:10)
Thus poor Bryan was bound in his coat, his cloak, his hosen (for an example of hosen, consider what Peter Pan wore on his legs; altho Peter wore green, whereas Bryan prefers devil-red hosen), his slippers and undergarments, and was cast into the midst of the burning fiery furnace. So there he sat, right at the bottom of the endless pit. And there were lions down there.
Now, because king Nebuchadnezzar’s dictate was urgent, and the bottomless pit of Hell was exceeding hot, the flames of the fire slew those angels that hefted Bryan into the pit. For they had been overeager to please the king; thus they acted too hastily, and got too close to Hell’s brim, and the vicinity singed them.
And Bryan fell down into the midst of the burning furnace of the pit of Hell.
Now, while viewing this from above, king Nebuchadnezzar became astonished; and he rose up in haste, and spake, and said unto his remaining angel confidants, “Did not we cast one soul, that old serpent the devil, alias Bryan Ray, bound with chains into the hellfires?
And the angels sniffled and answered, “True, O king.”
Then Nebuchadnezzar became almost blue but mastering himself he grew yellow, & at last white pink & smiling, and then replied, “Lo, here’s an ‘if-then’ question for you, my stupid foolish angels. IF we only tossed one antichrist, Bryan by name, into the pit of hellfire and brimstone, THEN why do I see a double devil abyss'd, surfing the inferno, and it, or rather they, are taking no damage, for the flames refuse to consume them, and they resemble Jesus & Metatron; or rather Jacob & Elijah; or Jehovah plus the Man of Light from Sufism; or Lucifer in his original glory plus the Human Form Divine, as played by William Blake’s ‘Four Zoas’, combined into one who looks like Albion or New America... is this really Finnegan’s wake? (I can’t quite tell what I’m looking at: it’s either a round Disk somewhat like a Guinea or an Innumerable host singing ‘Satan Trismegistus!’; and the falling comrade looks like the Son of Eve.)”
Then Nebuchadnezzar came near to the mouth of the burning fiery pit of the furnace of Hell, and spake, and said, “Dear Bryan, you breath-spark of the most high God, come back, I miss you. And bring your friend. I’ve heard so much about him; now, at last, I want to meet in person this Poetic Genius so-called.
And Bryan halted in his freefall, and hovered in the midst of the chaos — like treading water, only hotter — and the pit of Hell then vomited Bryan the devil out upon the dry ice in Heaven.
And all the angel princes, governors, and captains, and the king’s bad counsellers, being gathered together to gawk, gawked long upon Bryan, whose body the fire had no want to consume, nor was one scale on his body charred nor burnt, neither had his garments any reek of fire about them, but his hosen had acquired a sexy sparkle. And his mane was aflame.
Then Nebuchadnezzar spake, saying, “On my money, I must commend the god of Bryan, this ‘Poetic Genius’, who hath sent his luck, and delivered his secret agent, and has changed the king’s word, and yielded back Bryan’s body, fake tail and all, like a shadow-Pan to smack the dome of St. Peter. I can’t believe that you refused to bow to, or to serve or worship my Jesus Statue,” (here Bryan tried to interject; but the king motioned for silence, being in a passion to continue his speech,) “—what with the Flag and those Ten Commandments carved out of gold, and the picture of that fetus. You really only like your own style of art! Therefore I hold up my glass and propose this toast: Let every people, nation, and language, which speak any thing amiss against the Poetic Genius, forged by Blake & popularized by his grandson Bryan, be damned forever; in fact, let anyone who even dares to question the God of Atheism be torn in tatters, and their house be made a small rambler, which is in constant need of repair: for there is no other Dame that can jitterbug after this sort!”
Then the king promoted Bryan in the province of America, and he made him Secretary of Commerce. And Bryan whitewashed all the bad ideas, and spray-painted weirder ideas over the top of them. And he caged the Free Market and kept it at his side as a pet.
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