Here's the next page from my book of 291 Drawing Prompts. (The previous page appeared just yester-entry.) The prompt for this here beautiful drawing was "Hologram".
Dear diary,
I just woke up. I have only low thots today. Some days I wake up with fantastic thots that dazzle my readership, but today it’s just low thots. So please come with me and hear what they are.
My first thot is that we who live here in the U.S.A. have only two political parties. Now, don’t worry: I promise that this thot will not turn the present entry into a whine-fest or an essay on economics. I’m simply starting from a fact that we all can verify: there’s the Reps and the Dems, that is all. And when we talk about our political inclinations, we always use only two sides of a scale: we say “I’m a right-winger” or “I’m a left winger”. I believe that the limitations of our politics stem from a physical fact — the fact of our physicality: For we humans each have only two wings, therefore our politics follows suit.
Now after having the above thot, I began to think: What would happen if a group of humans were to gather in the meadow and begin to talk? Clearly the talk would soon escalate into a political argument about “left versus right”, because that’s all the appendages we have.
And then what if an octopus were to approach this group of humans and open its beak and say “Howdy doo!” which being interpreted means “Hello, strangers” — I assume that this newcomer would be capable of much more nuanced views, or at least enjoy the luxury of being able to choose between a greater number of political options prior to latching onto one myopic stance, if the latter were the case, because octopi possess not a mere two flightless wings like mankind but a grand total of EIGHT sucker-bearing arms on their soft, oval body.
So the political parties in Octopus Land (or maybe instead of “Land”, their home country should be called Octopus Sea; since they live underwater, I think) would have eight separate parties to choose from (corresponding to one for each tentacle), and those parties’ representatives would all, if elected, implement variations of what would be, in essence, the same central blueprint of tyranny.
Also, instead of being color-coded blue or red, like our Democrats and Republicans are, the octopi political teams would need to use the entire rainbow of colors! which is seven, if I remember correctly (think: “Roy G. Biv”); thus for the eighth party, they’d need to invent a new color, unseen by any eye before. — Or maybe they’d do like when the Spartans play a game of U.S. football, & have one team be the “shirts” while the other is “skins” — in other words, the octopi, instead of having to enlarge the physics of the color wheel, which could prove expensive, might opt to have one of the political parties just go nude. (I myself prefer this latter course, if I get to vote.)
But, back to the make-believe situation that I posited above...
So our visiting octopus approaches our group of bickering humans and joins the chat. It turns out that the humans were not arguing about politics at all. Instead, they were discussing a hypothetical. They fill the newcomer in on the premise:
“We have a fisherman named Bryan,” Ken explains to the octopus (yes, Ken is the popular male doll from the Barbie franchise); “and this fisherman Bryan lives in a house carved out of the stone of a cliffside with his family of seventeen children and a nameless mistress. Now here’s the dilemma, Mr. Spade,” (Spade is the octopus — that’s actually his first name, but Ken adds a “Mister” before it, as he thinks that makes his speech sound more genteel); “Bryan and his family in their cliffside dwelling are being attacked by a number of counter-revolutionary goons who are armed with handguns and steel chains. Now what is Bryan to do? Should he send these goons to their death, by throwing his sharp knife, which he had been using to eat his dinner of pan-fried ulua? Or should he follow the teachings of Jesus, from Saint Matthew’s gospel, where he sez:
“You may have heard the advice that Jehovah once yell’d: ‘Throw your knife at whoever attacks you, and don’t forget to aim’. But I Jesus advise you as follows: ‘Resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on the right tower, turn to him thy twin tower also.’ You have two wings: use them! And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy camisole, let him have thy corset as well. And whosoever shall compel thee to enter a church, be sure also to visit a mosque with him. Give to whoever asks thee for a loan; and whoever has borrowed of thee but cannot repay thee, forgive them their debts: period, end of story: no arguing’. Also ye have heard that Jehovah commanded: ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy’. But I Jesus say unto you, ‘Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, and do good to them that hate you.’ (Matthew 5:38-44)
“Now what say you that Bryan should do, when being ambushed by business-goons from the counter-revolutionary sector? I’m talking to you, Mr. Spade; wake up!”
The octopus was not really asleep — Ken only assumed this, as he mistook its closed beak for an eye. (Ken has a long history of mistaking cephalopods for cyclops.)
“We humans,” Ken added before Spade had a chance to voice his opinion, “all agree that Bryan should call his beautiful mistress to his side, and they should throw their knives in tandem at the advancing line of business-goons. It would be best if at least a couple of them can be struck dead, and we can name the slain after the childhood friends of Hamlet who try to escort the Dane into England but he outsmarts them — I mean, when we publish our retelling of this adventure (for no one will remember the actual names of those who’ve fallen fighting in the front lines) — and then, seeing these initial fatalities, the rest of the advancing army will retreat in fright, and they can share the same fate as the legion of devils who infested the man from the country of the Gadarenes who is known to loiter among the tombs, in Saint Mark’s gospel:
“Forthwith Jesus gave them leave; & the unclean spirits went out & entered into the swine: & the herd ran violently down a steep place into the sea — they were about two thousand — & were choked in the sea. (Mark 5:13)”
“Well, if you want my opinion, Captain—” said the octopus.
“Yes, go ahead, Mr. Spade,” said Ken.
“I think we have the wrong idea about violence, just exactly like we have the wrong idea about peace. I think that, even tho Bryan and his sweetheart may be saving themselves & their spawn by throwing their knives at the approaching hoard of vigilantes, it would be better if they practiced nonviolent resistance.”
“What the heck is this stupid squid talking about,” said Barbie. (This was the first time Barbie had spoken since Spade showed up; and her resentment for the octopus had been increasing moment-by-moment, because she did not like the look of all those tentacles: they reminded her of a spider that she had once dated.) “If Bryan and his wife Miss Magdalene don’t fight back, the government will steal their seaside resort and probably recruit all their orphaned children into Satanism.”
“But,” said the octopus, “what you’re failing to consider is that those soldiers who would be struck by the knives of Bryan & his true love, if they were allowed to live, might NOT drag Bryan’s family from their home; they might NOT kill Bryan and his soul-mate, and send the children to work long hours for little pay. Because, remember, Bryan is resourceful: he might say to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, the attacking goons in question, ‘Hello, friends, welcome to my abode. I am Bryan Ray, fisher of men: the famous “Groom of the White Election”; please come in! May I offer you some roosterfish?’ My point is that Bryan seems smart enough to know that the way to a soldier’s heart is thru his stomach; so he would most likely feed the invaders, and strike up an interesting conversation to beguile away the time while they enjoy their meal. This way, when evening falls, and all the enemy forces have been fed, so they’re all fast asleep, Bryan and his mistress and their children can take advantage of their slumber to sneak out of the cliffside abode under the cloak of darkness, and they’ll live happily ever after. Isn’t that how all stories end, in truth? I’ve spent most of my life at the bottom of the ocean, but we’ve seen Hollywood films from around the 1950s — we may be octopi, but we’re not uncivilized — & most of those stories end quite happily. Why should the present hypothetical be any different?”
*
Now I want to remind my reader that, unlike Spade the octopus, I Bryan the author of this entry am not really trying to invent a satisfying narrative or prove any point. I’m just writing a hasty journal post in the morning. And now I’m out of time. So although I get the distinct feeling that I’ve under-delivered with this one, I’m gonna leave the thing here. If you wanna buy it, I’m selling it as-is. It’s a bit of a clunker, but I’m not ashamed: when you’re engaged in experimental writing, as I myself am, you’ll win some & lose some.
If I had more time, I would make the Barbie character get enraged and deliver a rant at the octopus’s expense. Then, after berating the creature, the group of humans, led by Barbie, would arm themselves with harpoons and hunt poor Spade, who would continue to run and try to hide from his angry pursuers in different places all around the local environment. That way, as a writer, I’d get a chance to describe all the historical sites that they dash past during the lengthy and farcical chase-scene. I could mention the color & shape of the slides & swings at the playground thru which they must navigate; and I could have the humans chase Spade thru various vehicles at a used car lot — I would leave all the doors of the models unlocked, so they could chase him thru the interior of many different coups and sedans and trucks. They could even chase the octopus thru a dentist’s office, and I could describe all the neat tools and gadgets that they bump into there.
I hope that my mentioning these few basic outlines of what might be done with this entry if we weren’t under a time constraint gives you some level of contentment. What I’m hoping is that you imagine for yourself your own zany conclusion: in any case, whatever you dream up will probably be better than what I woulda written. So, have at it: the story’s yours now, gentle reader. Do with it what you like.
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