Did you ever see an entry go this way and that?

Here's the next page from my book of 300 Drawing Prompts (the last appeared on July 27); the prompt for this latest masterpiece was "Jungle".

Dear diary,

Why would a man force himself to write every day? All the men I have ever known aim to be writers, and when you ask each one how he intends to accomplish his goal, he replies “By forcing myself to write words down every single day, because practice makes perfect.”

I don’t believe in anything that these men talk about. First, when I don’t feel like writing, I simply don’t write. Like today, I awoke feeling lazy and low, so I didn’t write anything; I just came here and started talking to you.

Secondly, I neither admire nor desire perfection — I think it’s stupid. Perfection is just the conclusion of improvement; and we all remember what Blake said:

Improvement makes strait roads, but the crooked roads without Improvement, are roads of Genius.

That’s what I care about: genius. And genius manifests regardless of practice:

Sometimes a lack of practice causes some mishap in a creation that would have been circumvented by a practiced craftsman, yet since genius resides somewhere in that mishap’s consequence, it would have been detrimental for the creator to have practiced prior to acting. That’s why the more polished work of many artists’ “mature period” is staid, and The Happy Few consider it unprovoking. (That’s our synonym for dull or tedious.)

On the other hand, to be fair, sometimes genius shines thru an effect that only comes from rigorous practice; I’m thinking here about the poetry of Alexander Pope.

So my point is not that practice should be avoided, only that genius appears in either case — that of the intensely practiced as well as the wholly untrained — so my stance is not for or against; rather I’m simply indifferent to practice. I myself don’t like to practice, so I tend to avoid it, for better or worse: I prefer spontaneity.

But why do all these men that I’ve met over the years all want to be writers? If I were you, I’d change my dreams and aim them at other activities like car-wash employee, or deep-sea diver — at least in either of those cases, you get to play with water.

Also I think the reason that most humans are fascist is that the sun provides the example. It’s a bad role model. If we lived on one of those moons that have two suns or more, then we’d probably not feel the need to arrange every aspect of life into another pyramid scheme. But our planet has just this one single sun, which rules over all, and our desire is for it alone:

God created one great light to rule the day, and to subdue the night, and to have dominion over all the stars in the firmament. And God set the sun in heaven, so that it beat upon the face of the earth, and earth’s countenance fell, and it wished in itself to die, and it said, “It is better for me to die than to live.” And God saw that it was good.

That’s from Genesis 1:16-18, and I added a touch of Jonah 4:8 for pizzazz.

So the reason that I’d never want to be a police officer is that I don’t like rules. If I were a cop, and I saw a woman breaking the law, I’d have a hard time confronting her. I’d reason to myself “If I, even I, had jimmied open the selfsame upper-story window of that jewelry establishment, I too would fill my velvet pouch with diamonds.”

Thus, instead of arresting her, I’d shout to the cat-burglar: “Excuse me, ma’am, but if you can give me a minute to climb up there, I’d gladly hold that window open for you.” (Cuz I’d be addressing her from the ground, from street level; and there are silver fire-escape ladders that run up the side of the building.)

And she’d look down and initially feel fear at the sight of my police uniform; but, upon hearing the content of my speech, she’d relax and say “OK!” and then wait for me to join her.

It would take me a few moments to lumber up all those ladder rungs, because, if I were a cop, I’d be fairly fat — a great deal fatter than I am right now — on account of the hefty stipend that the force would pay me: I’d use that money to buy gourmet cuisine for every meal of every day (I’d maybe even hire a live-in chef, who’d prepare everything with butter and oil, just like I like... I can even see myself marrying this live-in chef, if the cat-burglar won’t have me).

& when I reach the window where my true love awaits, we’d embrace and kiss; then we’d stare into each other’s eyes for a literal eternity. After which we would snap back to reality and finish the heist. I’d act as the lookout and remain beside the window, keeping it propped up with my hand, while she deftly & nimbly locates the loot & bags it. (I like the look of her velvet pouch; it goes well with her catsuit.)

So that’s why I’d make a lousy policeman. I’d become allured by the personal story behind each crime and end up siding with the miscreant. For I can empathize with just about anyone.