Morningthots written more than 48 hours prior to Fool's Day

Dear diary,

We’re all scared of catching the plague; and we’re all scared of starving to death. Is that safe to say? May I speak for all of us, in this regard? — No? Well, too bad; I don’t care: I’m speaking for all of us.

Now just think about this fact, because it is an actual fact: Many living creatures have caught plagues in the past. And think about this other fact: Very many beings have starved to death.

My point is only to stress that these things we’re so afraid of are not even without precedent in animal history. I find that insulting. At least, if we’re going to be made to squirm, so that the extraterrestrial watchers can have a laugh while reclining in the comfort of their invisible amphitheater, let us face some danger that is yet unknown, like a war against the angels. Yes, the watchers themselves: come & fight us, you cowards! . . . Yet, on second thot, even that idea has been done before, because Satan the Devil turned good once and fought for humankind, against the LORD’s armies, and, as a result, he brought us the fire of poetic genius. God, I love Satan. But I’m kinda pissed that he accomplished all this before our own time; for it leaves us very little to do; and we are just as good as he.

I sure do think it’s intriguing, however, the way that this plague has exposed the Empire’s injustices. Everyone has been told to stay inside, to self-quarantine, so as to stop the spread of the virus; and so people dutifully have been putting themselves on lockdown, which means that they are unable to go to work, which means that they no longer earn a paycheck, which means that they can no longer pay their rent. Then they all ask, “Why the heck was I paying rent until this point?” And there is absolutely no answer — we’ve all just been had. The jerks in the financial arena have been floating along all these centuries on a simple con.

A majestic creature like a lion is caged in a zoo. It seems to me that in a perfect world, this type of situation could not occur: it would be impossible. And the same goes for the way that the multitudes of human beings have been treated, since the times before even the major religions were invented.

At it will be interesting, if this plague ever ends (big IF), to see how the working poor of the lowest classes proceed, now that the lie of the game has been exposed. Is everyone really going to return to paying their bills, & keep heading off to work each morning to earn profits for some ignorant expletive, now that they’ve received a hint of the world’s possibilities?

What are the distinguished paths in life? Helpers, lovers . . .

But I hate to let the prettier sentiments get control of what I’m writing here; so let me try to side with what I despise, just for the sake of variety.

I really admire those men who do harm to others. They arise every morning, lift their pillow & take the firearm from beneath it, place it into their holster & then walk out onto the street. They begin their crime spree; in the midst of which, they note that a small child has witnessed them pick-pocketing a bystander, so they kill the kid with a blast from their gun.

But as soon as I try to imagine a hateful individual, I realize that he is in no way hateful enough. What he has done is cartoonish, almost comical. To describe the truly hateful, you’d need to be able to write in a boringer fashion than I can muster.

I like traders & vendors. They look at a goddess and do not see any divinity; they see only a number of parts to be sold. How much do you think we can get for the arm, the leg? Let us draw up a pricing index.

I also like statesmen.

But now I wanna change the subject a little, cuz my mind went somewhere else. Let’s consider the clashes between the various religious groups. These disagreements have brought much torment and bloodshed to humankind . . .

What are they, exactly: these religious arguments? They’re like a group of people who really enjoy one poem — say, a poem by Emily Dickinson — and they’re so adamant in their admiration of that Dickinson poem that they hold any other poem to be an affront to true life; so, when any other person claims to be moved by any other poem — say, a poem by Emily Brontë — the lovers of the one Emily must murder the lovers of the other Emily.

I like the idea of people murdering people over poetry. But I think that it would improve matters if we changed the act of murder into the act of writing extremely passionate essays full of hatred against one another. I’d LOVE to read those essays. We could collect them together and bind them in a volume called Hit Pieces, and give it the subtitle: Emily vs. Emily.

Yeah but instead we have this stupid world where people kill each other for no good reason, and they don’t write any hot essays. Not even lukewarm essays, except against politicians.

The thing I hate about politics is that it’s both boring AND ineffective. Poetry might be ineffective, but at least it’s exuberant. (I’m talking about the strong poetry only, since the sincere stuff isn’t worth mentioning.) Politicians speak words that don’t translate to any type of action, change, or power in the world, and they’re not even fun to listen to.

*

I wonder who was the first person ever to eat an animal.

Then my next thot is: Why would I assume it was a person?

The act of eating has always bothered me. I never have an appetite; I always must force myself to eat, I must trick myself into thinking that this is something I want.

When did the stomach first get invented? Was it an organ living outside, on its own, originally? Or did it develop in tandem with the rest of the digestive system? Where is the stomach of the worm, and why is it so darn different from the human stomach? Humans are basically worms with arms and legs, am I wrong? The lengthy, wormy part becomes the intestines, once you grow a head, and then a stomach wells up underneath the heart . . . or behind the heart or whatever (I never claimed to be an expert at anatomy).

So the stomach sez: “Put stuff in me; I’ll change it. I’ll dissolve it and make it into more of me.” What a greedy item.

So that’s why I wonder what existence would be like if all creatures, instead of having stomachs, had something else. Probably this idea would end world hunger. But it would be harder to become obese, so that would be sad. And it would take more mental gymnastics to justify chewing on flesh.

Also if you lose your stomach, there’s no guarantee that you’ll be able to keep your lungs. Cuz breathing air is kinda like eating; and each lung is like a very dainty stomach that prefers light meals.

Speaking of light meals, why are the eyes not doing their fair share in this business of energy-theft? I think the eyes should be storing all the luminescence and imagery that they take in. Instead of just looking at things, they should save all the photons that they entrap, and pump the brain up till it’s full — they could blow it up like a balloon, and then we’d all be much smarter. We’d maybe even be able to beat our computers at chess, if this bill passes.

Note that the eyes are connected by two bungee cords to the brain’s beef, directly. This cordage could be used as a supply route to transfer the sun’s rays that are legally enslaved. I think I’m onto something here.

And instead of excreting waste in the traditional fashion, people should develop a valve at the tip of their forefinger, so that wherever they point, they can shoot forth ordure.

And all shit should be birdshit. The birds have it right, yet again. It should be bright white, not tawny or cocoa; and it should remain in liquid form. And it should land on folk’s overcoats.

And dehydration is something I’d like to eliminate. Who the fuck thot THIS was a good idea?—that god should be fired. Dehydration helps no one. Lo: the being who experiences the dehydration simply feels ill, whereas the element that is actuating the phenomenon doesn’t even derive much pleasure from it. At least when you kill a child with a handgun while committing a robbery, you get a cheap thrill in the moment; and then, in years to come, you can cherish the memory of this event. — But when you dehydrate a thing, such as a heart made entirely of grapes, all you’re left with is a shriveled little raisin. And who, besides I myself, desires a purple raisin for a human heart? (The only reason I ordered my replacement organ online is because there was a good deal on the latest model, plus I ruined my last one by eating too much red meat and participating in stressful activities like global domination.)

Lastly, it’s well documented that all life usually stops when it reaches death. But I’d like to remind myself that not even a dead body is “out of the game”. Because anyone who’s died in the last ten years isn’t just floating in space, enjoying the show. They’re nowhere to be found. So we can conclude from this that whatever happens after your current form falters and fails is something different than your current form could ever have conceived of; for, if your current form could have conceived of this, it surely would have done so; but it didn’t: therefore I’m right and you’re wrong.