Imaginary imprisonment and its analog

Dear diary,

What shall we liken the world to? A volleyball game? OK, so the world is like a gigantic volleyball game. People are wearing their favorite outfits and thrusting and jolting about, hitting the ball, setting up a play for their partners so that they can spike the ball over the net. Everyone’s racking up points. The sun is shining, and we’re near an ocean. What fun.

Now let’s say that an enormous vehicle painted in camouflage approaches the court. It drives over the sand, thru the beach, and stops in the middle of the volleyball court. Seeing that the vehicle is armed with cannons and blasters of all sizes and shapes, Team Red calls a timeout. Thus the game momentarily halts. Now four hulking officers exit the vehicle; they are heavily armed and wearing bulletproof coverings. And each dons a helmet with a thick shield whose exterior is reflective, so that it resembles a mirror — but it is one-sided: thus, the wearer can see the volleyball players, but the volleyball players cannot see the face of these officers; their visage is obscured by a silvery glare.

My point is that these are the police, and they are here to arrest and jail one of the players on Team Red. Let’s say that they arrest me myself, Bryan Ray, one of the roughs. That way, I’ll be able to report to you what it feels like to rot in jail for the rest of your life. Cuz I’m a half-decent journalist.

Alright, so the cops shove me down on the ground and jab their knee in my back and put handcuffs on me. Then they stand up and give me a kick and say “You’re coming with us, punk.” And I say, “What is the reason you are arresting me? Have I committed a crime? Is there an outstanding warrant for my capture that I’m unaware of? Am I at the top of a most-wanted list or something? Please give me a little more info about why I must be dragged away from this game; cuz my team is winning, and I was playing pretty well: I only got two fouls and a warning from the referee (that’s the guy who’s sitting in the high chair in the middle by the net — he’s actually also the lifeguard) — normally I get kicked off the field by this point… by the early moments of the third quarter, I mean...” And the officer sez:

“We’re under no obligation to tell you WHY we’re dragging you off to jail, cuz all your rights already got revoked lo-o-ong ago, but I’ll answer your question anyway, for the same reason that Officer Duke gives ‘an extra half’ of contraband to Officer Sunshine, when he meets him at the diner, in the film Wrong Cops (2013) — that is, I’ll tell you ‘because I like you.’ The reason for your arrest is that you wear your hat as you please, indoors or out, and we find that arrogant.”

So I answer the officer: “But I don’t even own a hat. I never wear hats at all. My head is shaped weird, so hats don’t look right on me.”

But they just shove me into the vehicle and drive off, spraying up sand from their tires as they go.

Then the volleyball game resumes and everyone returns to having a good time. The Red Team wins, and their opponents immediately beg to play another game. It’s super fun, so they play game after game, all day and all night. No one ever sleeps or dies while volleyballing.

Now the whole purpose of me writing this entry so far is to convey to you the conditions under which we dangerous criminals are kept. So the first thing that happened, after they stole me away from the game, is that the police dropped me off at the prison. They used the tip of their boot to nudge me out of the vehicle, and I landed on the pavement. Then I had to get myself up on my feet, despite the fact that I was still handcuffed.

Next I turned & faced the high-security prison. I then walked to the door labeled “Entryway”. I greeted the secretary at the first window, and she asked my name and the reason for my visit. I told her my name is Bryan, last name Ray, and I added that when the officers arrested me, they made me promise to tell the prison personnel that I should be scheduled to rot in jail for the rest of my life.

So the secretary types all these details into her register.

Then two friendly guards approach me, and each takes hold of one of my arms. They drag me down the hallway and lead me to cell number thirty-three, code-named “C-33”, which is the room that they traditionally give to famous rabble rousers and renegades — it’s the same cell where they held Oscar Wilde and also Jesus. I’m not trying to compare myself to the magnificent Wilde or to Jesus; I’m just mentioning my own name in proximity to theirs, so that you the reader might make that connection on your own. Why not file me right next to them, in your mind? Then maybe I might get a little respect around here.

Alright so now I’m imprisoned in my small, cold room. Now I can tell you what life in jail is like.

Remember how, in the beginning, we compared the world to a great big volleyball tournament? Well, game after game is still being played, back at the beach, and people are having more and more fun: their fun is increasing moment by moment. And the Red Team keeps winning; tho they’ve forgotten all about me, their former star player Bryan Ray. This doesn’t bother me much, tho, cuz I understand the cycle of life: I know that we all must enter existence & move around for a bit & then exit stage left. The main difference between me and the average life-liver is that I myself was simply forced to leave the fun a little earlier, & I proved too chicken to perform the rite of self-slaughter; I now only dream about the bygone days of the tournament from my cold, small room here in the dark: just like Oscar Wilde or Jesus — or like Kafka’s Hunter Gracchus. So here’s the life I’ve been given:

Instead of leaping about in the sun with my friends, and volleying the ball back & forth on the court of sand, I’m stuck here monitoring the game like a sucker from my little room in hell: for there are tiny screens in my room that present visuals from the outside world — it’s like watching a sports event on TV. The program is apparently a live broadcast of the action, but this is difficult to verify, because I have no way of knowing for certain if what I’m seeing on each screen is what is happening in reality; for all I know, these might be re-runs of old games that I don’t remember, or that I wasn’t around for. I wouldn’t put it past the prison staff to feed me outdated entertainment, and then to justify this treachery by reasoning to themselves: “Who cares about Bryan — he committed the crime of arrogance, now he can serve his time; he doesn’t deserve to know the Red Team’s true record. Now the cash that we saved from cancelling his playoff subscription can be used to buy ourselves higher quality sandwiches.” For the jail staff stocks the break-room fridge with sandwiches: that’s what they all eat; whether secretaries, guards, or members of the endless layers of administration: on their breaks, they all eat sandwiches from the common refrigerator. And they get one half-hour break per shift, and two fifteen-minute smoke breaks. And each shift is nine hours. And weekend overtime is mandatory.

I’m simply trying to draw your attention to the fact that living in jail, in my beautiful fantasy here, is just like living in modernity, in the 21st century (specifically the Year of our Lord 2019); cuz I in my prison cell cannot participate in the volleyball tournament directly but must instead watch outdated episodes of prerecorded games on tiny little screens. That’s just like how we all are forced to experience modern life: thru cramped frames of our wireless devices: laptop computers or phones or tablets, etc. Each screen is like a window in a cold room, where the imprisoned soul observes the external free-world.

Actually, now that I think about it, I should have written the above scene so that my cell had actual narrow, physical windows carved into its stone walls; and I should have positioned the sandy beach (the place where everyone else was playing volleyball) right outside, on the northwest side of the prison, so that I, the wrongfully jailed pariah, could watch the world pass by without the need of modern technology. Then the staff of the prison could really have saved a bundle: that would’ve eliminated not only the monthly fee that they pay for their Internet service, but the expense of all those electronic devices themselves.

Acts of the Apostle
(Ch. 5; vs. 17–42)

Once upon a time, the World Prez rose up, and all they that were with him, which are the private parties of the Business Sector; and they were filled with indignation at Bryan Ray, the semi-known dilettante, because he was a disciple of Oscar Wilde and Jesus of Nazareth.

And the World Prez and all of his businesspersons put on their suits, and, thus dressed to the nines, laid their hands on Bryan and put him in prison.

But the Devil himself by night opened the gates of the prison, and brought his son Bryan forth, and said, “Go, jump and play in the volleyball tournament with your friends. You deserve it; you’ve done a lot of weird writing, which perplexes me — I kinda like your style.”

And when Bryan heard this, he dashed out into the nighttime air, which was crisp but not too chilly, and he joined the volleyball game that was ongoing, and they played thru the night until early next morning, and the Red Team won.

But the World Prez got wind of this, and all his cronies that were with him — all those really handsome and well-dressed men & women from the business community, who are worshiped as ideals & paragons by the working class — and they called an emergency meeting, and they discussed their recent global earnings, and they looked at profit-&-loss reports, and they broke bread together, and lit cigars, and they had a group-prayer. Then they concluded unanimously that Bryan the dilettante MUST be kept in prison: he should never be released.

But then a representative from the jail inched forth and stammered to the World Prez, “Um, we sent you an email message in plain text this morning, relaying that the aforesaid prisoner Bryan has escaped from his cell. Apparently the Devil helped him get out. (The Devil knows all our pass codes.)”

And the World Prez answered, crying: “I thot you said that the prison truly was secured and safe, and that Bryan was rotting in his cell, just as God commanded, and the keepers of justice (the friendly guards) were positioned like flaming cherubs outside the gate, on either side, to keep the Devil at bay, & to prevent him from rescuing Bryan. That’s what I was told in this morning’s debriefing.”

But the prison rep answered, “All I can say is that, when we opened Bryan’s cell door, we found no man within the room. There was only a strange fellow robed in red, who, before slipping away, assured us ‘Bryan is not here’. Now, what do you expect us to conclude from this evidence? Either Bryan escaped overnight, with help from the Devil; or he died and resurrected and shall soon return to earth for a final judgment. I suggest we put our faith in the former supposition, judging it to be more in line with our accustomed way of thinking.”

And the World Prez reassured the jail rep, “No, you were right to conclude as you did. Job well done, my trusty servant. The problem is with my debriefing staff — I think they’re trying to sabotage my administration. Alright, but you can go now. I’ll tackle this problem myself; I’ll make a couple of telephone calls. Sometimes it’s better for world leaders to talk directly to each other, voice to voice, thus bypassing their subordinates.”

So the World Prez dialed up the United States, China, and Russia. And he got all their captains on the line. And when those countries' statesmen heard these things, they doubted of them whereunto this would grow.

Then came a vassal to the World Prez while he was speaking with his friends, the Captains of the Big Three Nations, and the vassal whispered to the World Prez in sotto voce (so the studio audience could hear his news, but the men on the horn could not); and he said:

“Behold, this dilettante Bryan Ray, whom ye put in prison, is out on TV playing volleyball in the national tournament, and he’s winning every game. He’s the Red Team’s star player, according to the latest issue of VolleyNewz. The Red Team has even beaten the teams of the Big Three Nations, which is something that you promised their statesmen would never happen again. We fork out a LOT of caesar coins to fix those games. I suggest you act NOW!”

Then the captains of the Big Three Nations overheard this last remark, because the whispering of the vassal was so loud that it nearly broke the fourth estate’s corresponding wall; so the captains all ordered their officers to grab their largest fishing net, and to go fishing for men, and to net this star player Bryan Ray and drag him back to the jail — albeit nonviolently. That was their command, verbatim. And the reason that they ordered this kidnapping to be performed without violence is that they feared the multitudes; for Bryan had a lot of fans who would go berserk if they saw him get violently netted away in mid-game, while his Red Team was winning; whereas they wouldn’t mind much if the netting was accomplished in a fashion that blended with the surrounding action harmoniously, especially if it could be interpreted as some sort of fanciful segue into the halftime show.

So they netted Bryan, and they set him before the goons of the Lifestyle Council: and the World Prez grilled him:

“Did not we straitly command you that you should NOT play in this game? Yet, behold, you have packed the bleachers of the entire stadium with your raving teenage zealots. Are you trying to tarnish our brand?”

Then Bryan the dilettante answered and said, “I heed the voice of the Devil, not the voice of you pious scientists. The Devil released Jesus from this very same prison, and then what happened? You had your goons from the Lifestyle Council hang his skeleton on a pole, like the Jolly Roger pirate flag, and you ordered us to take a knee and salute, and to pledge our allegiance to its principles. But we disbelieve in absolutes or any sort of fixed symbolism. We side with Herakleitos: All is fire! Even if this emblem that you crafted signifies flux, we still dissent; we still favor doubt; moreover, flux speaks for itself; it doesn’t need us to praise it. Any prayer but ACTION is an insult. But after you did establish this inhuman posture, then the Devil exalted with his right hand Oscar Wilde to be a trendsetter and a saviour to all individuals, for to give repentance to us dilettantes, and to teach us a less braced artistry. Therefore you placed him in the very same cell. And it’s hard for me to overlook these harsh reactions of yours, even tho I love you statesmen, and I love your partners, the businesspeople — I admire your go-getter attitude — but when I witness how you abuse my friends & me, whether we’re sublime prophets or just fourth-rate hacks… Sorry, I lost my train of thot. I’m a little nervous, with everyone watching me like this. In closing, I just wanna give a shout-out to the Holy Ghost, whom the Devil hath given to them that treat all living things compassionately.”

And when the World Prez and his cronies and statesmen and businesspeople heard these words of Bryan, they were cut to the heart, and they took counsel to re-imprison him. And they began to chant aloud “Lock him up!”

Then Bryan’s chief attorney, the android known as TOM-9 (great grandfather of HAL-9000), a data master who was fluent in machine intelligence, stood tall and cleared his throat, which stopped the mob’s chant; for this fellow had a decent reputation among all the businesspeople of the World Prez’s entourage. And Bryan’s attorney told Bryan to step outside for a moment, so they could discuss him behind his back.

Then, with Bryan removed from the courtroom, his attorney TOM-9 addressed the goons of the Lifestyle Council:

“Ye hardworking patriarchs and matriarchs, take heed to yourselves what ye intend to do as touching this dilettante Bryan. For before these days rose up Jesus, boasting himself to be somebody; to whom a number of men joined themselves, rumor has it about twelve or so, and they styled themselves disciples and apostles. And this Jesus was incarcerated, as I think Bryan might have mentioned to you; and as many as obeyed him were scattered, and brought to naught. Then the earthly government, having been usurped by transnational corporations, infiltrated and commandeered the anti-debt cult that Jesus was trying to kick-start, and they turned it to good use; and it ended up serving the corporate state, after all, and swapped welfare for warfare. So that was sort of a happy ending, for us death-bots. However, immediately after this bank-robber Jesus was swept away, up sprang his successor Oscar Wilde, the Irish poet & playwright, who wrote marvelous dialogues & essays, in the days of the most taxing moral pretenses, and drew away many genii after him: his style was beguiling (personally, I don’t see how you could read his words and not agree with whatever he happens to be saying: he’s always right, all the time). Well, anyway, he also sadly perished; and it was disgusting how his country allowed him to suffer, especially in those latter years of his life: it is an outrage how the state pitchforked him into poverty, as it has done to so many others; and, again, as many as obeyed him were dispersed and have been treated likewise. So now I say unto you: It’s time to make a change. Refrain from imprisoning these men — refrain from impoverishing and slaying them. Let them be. For if this Lifestyle Counsel and its work shall benefit businesspeople alone, it will end up in dullsville: But if it be of the Devil, ye cannot overthrow it; lest haply ye be found even to fight against the fountainhead of all poetry.”

And to him they agreed: and when they had called back Bryan the dilettante, and beaten him lightly, they ordered that he should not speak in the name of Jesus, or of Oscar Wilde or Walt Whitman, and under no circumstances ever to mention William Blake. Then they unlocked his manacles. And so he returned to the volleyball court.

And everyone departed from the presence of the Lifestyle Council and hastened out of the courtroom into the streets, rejoicing that they had managed to escape, with intact wit, such a tedious affair.

And daily in the church and state, and in every house, on television and even over the Internet, they ceased not to read and discuss the collected works of the wilde-est writers, like Oscar and Jesus, & yes even Bryan as well; altho Jesus wrote nothing at all, and Bryan wrote way too much and was generally unreadable.