Dear diary,
When I was young, the authority figures here in the U.S. taught us all about the bad things that foreign governments do to their people. We were told that Hitler’s Germany and Stalin’s Russia both spied on their own citizens. Then a few years ago, documents were leaked from our own government showing that we United Statesians are no better off than those Germans and Russians were; our own surveillance state, according to its own former agents, is actually more intense than its forerunners.
Now here’s what I think about all this: Nothing. I have no opinion on it. My boss at the computer store has a strong opinion: he despises it — he tries hard to maintain his privacy in everything he does. But I find that exhausting; so I go the opposite route: I just put my private diary online, and make it public for all to see. There’s not a thot that runs thru my head that you’re not privy to, if you read these pages.
But why? — That’s a good question: I would like to direct it first to the spies and then to myself.
Let’s start with me: Why do I want to live a non-private life in a house of glass, which has been tinted ruby? That answer is simple: Because I’m a showboat, and I love the color red. I also like writing, which requires a readership. I mean, think about it: No one lights a torch only to hide it under a bushel or under a bed; rather, you use it to ignite your can·bra·lier (candelabra-chandelier; see Mark 4:21) And instead of the dull facts of science or dry recaps of the plot developments in the latest TV soap opera, I prefer more fanciful writing — altho I do indeed love dull facts and dry plot recaps, I love much more any writing that is poetic and artistic. My favorite nonexistent concept is art, and I wish to participate, not just to be a spectator. I see art as one vast conversation that never happened and which lasts throughout all ages. Thus, as an artist (a person who writes silly diary entries is still an artist: please allow me to wear this label; I’m very proud of it), I say, as an artist, I desire an audience; and I’ll welcome the attention of any mind, even a paid spy or National Security Agent. When I write something, I want everyone to read it. Of course the misfortune of my own case is that the espionage agents who monitor ME quickly tire of their job: they slack off and just let the computer auto-save all my writings, unread, in its database. My main agent, Don, and his superior, Carmen “the Gypsy Girl” (her own phrase, not mine; she even signs her checks with this legend, as I found out by doing a little sleuthwork of my own), long ago stopped even skimming my daily entries. They only tune in when I start yelling curse-words because my phone’s touchscreen malfunctioned.
Now, what about the spies: Why are YOU all doing this espionage? Why are you constantly eavesdropping on the populace? What is it exactly that you want to know about us citizens, that you must invisibly stalk us nonstop like good angels? Are you presuming that we might do something immoral; and then you’ll get to fly up to heaven & tattle on us to God, so that God will then bless you with an angel-treat? I can’t figure out if you’re rooting for sin or piety — is your prime desire to watch unsuspecting couples disrobe and make sweet love, OR, on the contrary, is your greatest fear that strangers succumb to carnal temptations. I suspect it’s the former, for if you really wanted to prevent fornication from occurring, no U.S. citizen would ever be able to accompany her wife into a motel room without a government agent bursting in soon afterwards to stand physically betwixt the two of you, extending both arms to break you apart like a ref in a boxing match.
And here’s another thing that I find tantalizing: Whenever you get a suspicion that you’re being judged, and you head over to the closet and yank open its doors to expose the agent who has been furiously jotting notes on a pad in longhand, once you begin to question this intruder, he always claims that he’s only doing his job. “I’m just doing my job,” he sez; “I got a spouse and six children to feed.” And then you angrily ask him a follow-up question: “Well then who the FUCK is paying you to spy on me? Answer me before I slap your face.” The guy always sez the same thing: “You’ll have to talk to my handler.”
So there’s this concept of handlers. The agent in the closet is just an underling who must report all findings to his superior at Spy Headquarters. But even if you can get thru to this latter flunky, the so-called superior, on the telephone, he’ll reveal that there’s yet another manager above him. Presumably there’s a single Chief Executive at the tiptop, who is bankrolling the operation. Now THAT’s the man that I wanna talk to — I’d like to ask him…
“Wait!” a heckler from my readership interrupts: “Why do you assume this company’s Top Dog would be a ‘man’? Most CEOs of spy agencies are women, nowadays. That’s a fact — look it up.”
Fine, I’ll revise my last statement above. It now should read: That’s the dame that I wanna talk to — I’d like to ask her the following:
What is it that you wanna know about me? I’ll bare my whole soul. No question’s off-limits. I’m even willing to sit down and chat — we could go get drinks together at a dimly lit bar in my hometown. There’s a really vibrant restaurant scene here in St. Paul; and all the establishments are open for business: we’re not in the middle of a pandemic, and they’re not all on lockdown; the city’s not ablaze from counterinsurgent arsonists; there’s no rioting at present. Why don’t we meet and talk face-to-face; later we can spend the night in a motel. Seriously, I wanna know why you wanna know what I wanna know. I’m so curious about why you had me trailed that I’ve had you trailed for months now. I know everything about you, from your bowling instructor’s shoe-size to your pet bear’s favorite movie [The Exterminating Angel (1962)]. I know that you have an apartment in Manhattan, and that you work for the NSA, and that your hair is strawberry blonde, and that you got kicked out of the Baroque Club’s continuo group for having insufficient rhythm. But you still practice your part alone every night on your harpsichord. And you weep while you play, but it ain’t cuz you’re good.
Also I remember watching Fellini’s Amarcord (1973) — the title literally means “I remember” — which film takes place in Mussolini’s Fascist Italy, and there’s a scene where the young protagonist’s father undergoes a harsh inquisition where he is treated cruelly by hardhearted statesmen — sorta like how I gave my watcher above the third degree.
So, again, I ask myself: Why do we do this? And again I answer myself: We wish to control each other like avatars in a video game.
OK, I guess I’m satisfied. The “Spy vs. Spy” racket gets a thumbs-up judgment from me. It’s fun; you get to gather intelligence on your secret crush and then hurt each other’s feelings during cross-examination. (Did you know that more than 80% of double agents end up marrying their counterspies?)
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