Dear diary,
I’m not gonna write an entry here today, cuz I’m trying to only write when I have pleasant things to write about, or when I feel pleasure from the subject that’s on my mind; and today I woke with unpleasant subjects: I awoke thinking about the word “race” and about the way that money and wealth and property make life ugly, and about the role that politicians play in all this, and the way that people get swayed to think one way or another. None of that stuff is pleasant; none of it gives me pleasure. I wish that I had awakened thinking about various styles of flowers, or about the things that fire can do, or about the fine scent of fresh wood, or about the feel of the skin of the shoulders of a woman who’s wearing a backless evening dress. I also think that the people who are performing coups and assassinations in our world should stop doing so, and that those who are not presently doing so should give those hobbies a try, if only for the sake of learning a new skill. I don’t really care to make Earth a better place — I don’t believe that’s possible — I only want Earth to malfunction more interestingly. What if there are but two types of being, after all: those whose pants are on fire, and those whose mane is on fire? Let’s dream up a little story, just to end this entry, since this entry doesn’t exist anyway, cuz we chose to not write it. And let’s make our story a simple road trip, so that all we need to do is imagine fun things to pass by or stop and look at. Our protagonists shall be two fools named Have and Eat. Have and Eat are in their wheelbarrow, speeding down the freeway. They pass a sign that sez “The Foothills of the Canadian Rockies” thus that’s where they are. “Look to your right,” booms a voice from the sky. At the right of Have and Eat are perfect governments, about fifteen of them, standing bespectacled and wearing vee-neck sweaters; and their pants are on fire. Have and Eat with their manes aflame halt their vehicle and step down onto the pavement. They salute this assortment of responsible young entities that they’ve stumbled upon. The groups honor each other with many soft kisses, they exchange flowers and lie down in the grass and read their favorite books together. Soon they build a whole network of loving civilizations; and, when the spin cycle begins, Have and Eat take off. They continue down the road, waving goodbye to their favorite scene yet. Then they come to a giant silk waterbed, with fluffy pillows and huge, soft, billowing comforters. They stop their wheelbarrow and extend its exit-slide, and they slide down into the bed. They sleep for a million years. Billions of wet little frogs soon approach from the nearby oceans and they hop onto the sleepers, and they just sit there, covering every inch of skin that was exposed. The bodies of the frogs are clammy, so the sleepers awake. The sleepers spend a few moments pondering the pros and cons of this clammy feeling, and then they decide at once to get up. They persuade the frogs to hop away by gently blowing on their foot-pads, which tickles them. Then Have and Eat get back into their wheelbarrow and start coasting down the road. They pass neon signs that say “Hot! Hot! Hot!” and “Sizzling!” and “Follow Ramp C-33 for Lighteningbolts and Lava!”, so they begin to develop an appetite. They stop at a diner whose neon sign reads “Molten Rock!” and they sit in a soft, silken booth at the back. Nudes descend from the staircases, and they sing the “Good evening” song. So our customers order strong drinks, and the singers prove extremely accommodating. Then a secret panel opens up at the center of the stage, and an eerie green ray spotlights what is revealed: it is the alien spacecrafts that were heretofore hidden within all the scriptures of the so-called holy books: here they are now, displayed alongside each individual alien who built them. “Are those the actual architects?” asks Have. “And may we learn all the riddles of this universe now?” adds Eat. “Yes, of course,” answers the chorus of nudes; “for a price.” So Have and Eat stand up and walk towards the aliens. The spacecrafts appear sparkling with enticement. The aliens then say… No, actually the aliens don’t say anything; or, rather, they talk for a really long time, but nobody can understand them, cuz their language differs from ours — their tongues are all forked — and they’re stranded on Earth as prisoners, although they’re presented in our story as willing participants in what we assure each audience is only a type of game show. Alright, so the sparklingly enticing spaceships all open their wing-doors at once, and initially our heroes Have and Eat think the ships’re gonna attack, cuz that’s what it’d look like, if rack-mounted machine-guns were soon to extend outwards from the plush interior of each fuselage and murder them in cold blood; but instead the vehicles are truly attempting to get Have and Eat to enter them bodily, so that they may act as their souls; because these vehicles are yearning to reach the next dimension (they have a long back-story that shall be told in some upcoming publication); so Have and Eat man them, and they fly up into the stars, and everywhere in the outer spaces there appear to be gorgeous flowers hovering aimlessly, cuz what human scientists call “singularities of space-time” resemble the blossoms and blooms of earthly vegetation — that is, they resemble genitalia — and the spacecrafts enjoy looping thru this tragedy of amusement. But after a few eons even the space pods grow bored, so they return to their wheelbarrow and continue zagging down the road of post-modernity. First they stop in Croatia, then they spend some time in Italy, then they visit a tiny island in Spain (whose name cannot be remembered), then they go to Mexico and Peru. Everywhere they travel, they meet kind people and eat tasty food. It’s no coincidence that one of our main characters’ birth-names is “Eat” — that christening was executed with malice aforethought: the reason is that he or she feels passionate about cuisine. It’s not too complex. And “Have” loves to steal stuff. For a name possesses meaning, which determines the size and shape of the soul of its bearer. It also predetermines willpower. That’s why, if I were to father a child upon the consort of Zeus, I’d name the thing “Intern”; that way, it’d be my faithful companion throughout all my wanderings. The iron fist of Fate will have my back in court, if it comes to that. (I’m half assuming the gift would try to sue for its freedom.) But lastly, Have and Eat end up in a meadow: it’s basically your classic pastoral conclusion. There are cows grazing nearby, because I like cows; and there is one black cat slinking between all the legs of the cows. Maybe we could position some businesswomen in businesswear playing stringed instruments in a semicircle near the corral posts, and the hairy man Enkidu from the Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh at the forefront, just to keep us on our toes.
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