Reverie with a sluggish start, one or two slight turns, and a so-so ending

. . . plus a sub-par image:

Dear diary,

I wish that we principalities and powers would begin to focus more on averting unwanted behavior instead of punishing criminal deeds.

Take any action that you dislike. Label that action bad. Now, when someone commits that bad act, our current mode is either to fine that person, imprison that person, or even (in the Land of the Free) to kill that person. Now consider the undesirability of each option:

I Bryan could steal from the poor and give to the rich, and you could fine me for doing so, but then after paying my fine I’d go right back to robbing hell and mailing the proceeds to heaven, because I’ve convinced you that my system is the least dull of all the dull systems; thus the act that you dislike — transferring worth from the needy to the wealthy — continues forever.

Likewise, you could jail me, but, again, I could serve my time and then go right back to boosting inequality.

And even if you engage in capital punishment, and administer the death penalty, by way of strapping me into the electric chair and pressing the ON button, or alternately hanging me by the neck, or injecting poison into my veins, or inviting me to drink a jug of hemlock — better yet, you could allow my age’s Church to extradite me to my age’s Empire, which could then nail me to a cross next to other troublesome journalists — I say, even if you avail yourself of any of these pastimes, still, you haven’t done a thing to prohibit my custom of robbing the poor to enrich the already rich. For no one is deterred by the sight of an executed criminal: survivors simply dream up a way to fit this mishap into their spiritual schema; they make it a crucial part of the creed and say: “Not only did we fully expect this failure, but we would’ve been dismayed had it failed to occur.” Then the adherents, and even many credulous infidels, join in helping the rich to feast on the poor, without considering that the very same fate awaits their own persons; for none dare face the truth that they themselves are worth not one barley-corn less than me, the thief whose corpse is being eaten by ravens. Also, if it’s true that ghosts can haunt the living, then my holy spirit will continue, from beyond the grave, to hoodwink the poor on behalf of the rich.

So what am I proposing is the solution? I’m just flying by the seat of my pants here; admittedly I don’t have much to offer; but I’m thinking along the lines of making Bad Act X impossible. Can we do that?

And what should happen to me myself, the culprit: the one who let the prosperous gorge on the poor? Cuz if you answer that society should build a giant maze that I can live in, which will permit me to walk in certain directions and do business only in ways that cannot harm the helpless, while blocking the path that would allow me to empower the powerful, I say:

First, that sounds like a lot of work; very time-consuming. Second, unless you make the walls of this maze out of high-quality steel, I’ll just be able to drill right thru them.

But let me try addressing this from a different angle:

Let’s say that an icicle falls on your head. Or, better yet, let’s say that it falls on the head of your boss and kills him. And now let’s say that your landlord drowns in the ocean.

Note that both murderers above, the solid form and the liquid form, are manifestations of the selfsame substance: WATER.

Now, what are you going to do?—denounce water and send it hate-mail threats and call water evil and punish water by fining it, jailing it, and slaying it? For, I repeat: an icicle is water, and so is the ocean; and these things happened to kill the two loves of your life.

Without a boss, you have no job; thus you cannot pay your landlord: now you’re naked and starving and weeping to death on the street.

Note that teardrops, however, are water, too. Thus water not only causes suffering and death, it also sustains life and suffers along with us.

What I’m trying to say is that it would be ridiculous to try to lock water in the cell of a prison, just because it killed your boss and your landlord. Most jail cells have vertical bars made of high-quality steel: they’re basically a cage: water’s not going to stay inside; it will rather flow between the bars and escape out into the world, perhaps even slay some bankers and their pet politicians.

But the liquid that is in your water dish, which keeps you alive, is not the same substance that slew your owners.

Or maybe a clearer way of saying this is that you wouldn’t think of adopting a water-free diet solely on account of there having once been a worldwide flood. So, in this last case, what happened to your vengeance? Did you decide to forgive the water?

No, the reason you forewent declaring a War on Water is that you understand that the liquid in your dish is not doing anything evil at present, therefore you approve its existence, you even lick it a little. The ONLY problematic water is that which slew Pharaoh.

So the knowledge that Schopenhauer pushed his landlady down the stairs should not prevent your enjoying his pessimistic philosophy; for the Schopenhauer who wrote the words that you’re reading right now is as much the Schopenhauer who did the landlady-pushing as good water is bad water. The latter Schopenhauer is frozen, oceanic, inundating. The former Schopenhauer weeps with you. For he too is a victim of those who rob the poor for the rich, in other words the free marketplace:

And when he was come near, he beheld the city, and wept over it. And he went into the temple, and began to cast out them that bought and sold therein. (Luke 19:41-45)

Not all ice is evil. The ice that you put in your highball glass is half-gladdening. Only one icicle was a rebel to its amoral essence, when it fell from the sky down onto your boss’s head. Yet nobody knows how your landlord ended up in the ocean, for the ocean has swallowed some pretty good things in its life. It dedicates a fair amount of its energy to charity. And I’ve heard people say that when a pregnant goddess is ready to enter the delivery room, her water “breaks” — this body of water is broken for you to be born.

So what we should do is this. Instead of impoverishing the poor to enrich the rich, thus mountaining higher the tip class’s sky-high wealth-heap, we should freeze all economic action: cardiac arrest the market-pump so that it can no longer circulate its blood-money: ban all manner of exchange or trade: eliminate advertising, insurance, banking, and finance in general. No buying, no selling. Each good or service will simply exist wherever it happens to be basking, and you can put forth your hand and take it, and you can plain have it, IF you can lift it. You can even eat it, if it is edible.

No more will you reach into your pocket to offer gold or silver coins to the cashier. Never again will you hand over a small plastic card for the clerk to swipe. For precious metals are passé; and all numbers escaped away from the banks’ computers, whether debit or credit: the system is wholly measureless now.

So, if, for instance, you find yourself in a bread shop, there will be no longer any charge for the sights and the smells: like I was saying, you don’t even need to talk to the clerk or cashier; just take whichever cake you find appealing, cut a slice & enjoy it. Have the whole thing, if you’re really that hungry. I myself would only want a small slice; just to taste it.

And if someone who happens to be gliding thru Wall Street, cuz the stock market has been converted into a waxed realm for foot-surfing (a recreation where you slide around on a slippery floor for fun), and this person whooshes toward you with a wine carafe offering to refill your goblet, they can do so, if you permit them. The point is that all actions are consensual. For sometimes people truly desire to do kind acts for others. If you encounter this type of soul, consider yourself lucky. Offer them thanks; or even smile, now that doing so no longer costs anything. You can serve yourself OR others, in this new world.

And if Bob likes motorcars, then Bob can visit the showroom where all the finest motorcars are displayed; and Bob can take his favorite motorcar for a spin: he can open the door and hop inside and drive it. Then Bob can park the car in a garage, and get out and walk back to the showroom, and find his next favorite motorcar, and drive and park that vehicle next to the first in the same garage. Bob can repeat this action until the whole garage is filled with his favorite motorcars (which equals the sum contents of the showroom).

Now the reason that I did not say “Bob can drive the motorcar of his choice back to his own McMansion,” is that nobody owns anything anymore: we all just take whatever we can carry (or drive, in this case); and we lie down and nap wherever we happen to be, when we feel sleepy. All the McMansions from the bygone days still exist; only their doors remain unlocked; so you can enter one & make yourself at home, provided nobody’s already at that residence. (Remember, there are more houses than individuals in existence, so this is not a game of musical chairs: the Scarcity Barrier was broken prior to the 21st century.) Alternately, if there IS an occupant in the abode, yet she greets you at the entrance unashamedly, and invites you in and bares her neck to you, then you can stay together: either happily ever after, or as long as you fancy each other’s brand of wickedness.

My point is that the garage where Bob was parking all those cars was not his own: it was the Tyger Lot at the Zoo Hotel, which is free to the public. And if you wanna visit Bob, he’ll show you around the place and tell you all about each vehicle. (Bob’s a big car guy.) And you can drive one off, if you like. Just park it wherever.

But now imagine that you choose to drive off with Bob’s favorite motorcar. Does this sadden Bob? No, not much. Or rather intensely, but only momentarily; for Bob is a master at tamping down his emotions. In the end, it’s no big deal; Bob can just take another vehicle and trail you around the city at a discrete distance, like Scottie does to Madeleine in Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958), until you park in front of a museum. Now, at this point, if Bob were Scottie, he might follow you on foot, so as to learn more about your taste in portraiture; but Bob is not Scottie: so, in this case, you’re out of luck — Bob is only interested in your automobile: a green 1957 Jaguar. Once you climb out, Bob climbs in. Bob drives the Jaguar back to the Tyger Lot.