Six posts in one

Today’s post shall contain six unrelated posts: First, I shall talk about what type of material I want this public-private journal of mine to contain. Then I shall explain the reason why we don’t build museums on the ocean. After that, I will confess what type of reward I think I deserve as a writer. Next, I’ll reveal why it’s equally awful to be born as a Christian or not. Following which, I shall pinpoint the problem with everyone’s take on Andy Warhol. And, lastly, I will tell why I am not an obstetrician.

Obligatory image

Here's the next page from my book of 289 Drawing Prompts. (The previous page appeared on the 12th of May.) The prompt for this present drawing was "Skyscraper" and "Sorcerers wand".

1.
My journal should contain the whole world

I want to cram everything that can be said into the pages of this diary. That’s why I’m ashamed to realize how little I’ve said so far, and how narrow my range of topics has been. I’ve talked about food, sex, women, gold, fashion, sex, travel, women, and sex. But I can’t yet recall, for instance, writing even one single entry about giraffes.

2.
Why we don’t build museums out on the ocean

But do you know why they don’t locate museums in the open air, out upon the ocean, so that you must view the artworks via speedboat? It’s cuz, if museumgoers are seated in a vessel that’s cruising on the water-surface, when they try to concentrate on a painting that’s hanging from the sky, instead of focusing on the splendors of the masterpiece itself, each viewer will end up wondering: “What is that painting attached to which allows it to hang like this?” We spectators will note the ropes extending upwards from the top of each painting’s frame, and our eyes will follow them up to where they vanish above the clouds. We’ll then reason to ourselves, “Those ropes must be attached to something substantial, located just beyond the upper atmosphere; perhaps they’re all being held by a number of demonesses.” But, as soon as we think this, we discard the idea, because we recall there’s no way that demonesses would want to hover motionlessly like that; for demonesses are loads of fun: every demoness we’ve ever met has been unable to stand still very long before initiating the process of sweet lovemaking. And their kiss is as gentle as their caress.

3.
What I wish for myself as a writer

It’s no great secret that I’m dissatisfied with how the world has received my writings. And how has the world received my writings? The world has NOT received my writings. I’ve been given the cold shoulder and the silent treatment. It’s as if I never existed. And this is doubly hurtful because I believe I’m one of the better writers alive. Who the fuck else writes about floating museums in the middle of the ocean and then tells you exactly why you should not bother investing in them?

OK, so if I’m some sort of unknown super-genius, then what type of compensation do I believe I deserve for my writings?—what type of reception would satisfy me? I can answer that easily:

I’d be happy with exactly the same level of reception as Popular Novelist X has enjoyed his whole boring career. (I leave him unnamed here because he leaves me unnamed in his own works: As soon as he puts the name “Bryan Ray” in one of his bestsellers, I’ll allow the name “[Redacted]” to besmirch this diary.) I’d be satisfied if my writings received from the world’s readership the same love and respect that are given to that guy’s titles; and, also, because we live in a system that sets money as the standard whatchamacallit, I’d be pleased if you’d transfer his bank account over to me.

I think that the notion I’m proposing is eminently fair. Just imagine if the contents of the books of the pop novelist of your choice were all replaced with my own weird writings, and I got the fame and cash that he currently enjoys. Wouldn’t the world be a much finer place? For your favorite author’s writings are shallow & dull; and they will be forgotten, deservedly. Whereas each of my own words is like a gem reflecting the sun & shall live forever. (Of course “the sun” here stands for my intellect, not that lousy ball of fire that God made.)

4.
Why it’s equally awful to be born as a Christian or not

It is unfortunate to be raised as a Christian, and it is unfortunate NOT to be raised as a Christian. For if you’re raised as a Christian, you must figure out how to fight thru all the lies that your parents told you, as well as the lies that your church told you, and all the marvelous lies that the Bible tells — only then may you come out on the other side of these lies and discover that you yourself are every bit as divine: You are, in fact, the very Father of Lies.

Yet if you’re NOT raised as a Christian, you lack a lie strong enough to lure you to wrestle the Bible, so you end up never becoming infused with all the wicked glory that it offers. However, one who is not raised Christian has at least this clear advantage over a Bible-mad devil: the non-Christian will dedicate the lion’s share of her time to reading Shakespeare, who is the true and living God. And he died long ago. (Yet Shakespeare needn’t remain unresurrected: for his text beckons anyone with a will to become his child and thus his heir — this is the good news.)

5.
The problem with everyone’s take on Andy Warhol

Artists like Andy Warhol are not interpreted right. Remember that there’s no official Rule Book declaring what art should be (thank God). But a great many people assume that art must do either one of two things:

1. it must refract general humanity back to humanity; or
2. it must reveal the artist’s soul.

Now, obviously, Andy Warhol does neither of these things: tho he truly loves the Platonic Form of Generalness, he has no interest in refracting humanity back to humanity; and, being soulless, he possesses no soul to reveal. So when people say “Warhol sux,” they are pointing out the obvious: that Warhol sidestepped their favored brand of fascism.

But I myself say that Warhol is performing philosophical experiments by way of visual art. So if you can value these simple acts of wondering and questioning, then you’ll be judging Andy Warhol aright. (Keep in mind that I am the only authority on art.)

So, next time you take your speedboat out to the museum, and you see those obedient angels holding their framed soup cans, if your friends remark “I’d rather admire my own bikini-clad figure in this pocket mirror that I’m holding than bother to glance at the Warhol exhibit we’re driving thru, cuz Warhol sux,” just answer like so:

“You may think that you just made a point about artistic worth, Pamela, but you only dismissed a fork as ‘an ill-made toothbrush’.”

6.
Why I am not an obstetrician

Why am I not an obstetrician? (Obstetrics is the branch of medicine concerned with childbirth.) Here, I’ll tell you:

Yesterday it rained really hard for most of the day; then, after the rain stopped, I went outside and looked around at our lawn. There were tree branches everywhere — they had been ripped loose by the downpour. Here’s what this scene has to do with obstetrics:

I happened to really enjoy picking up these fallen branches and placing them into the “yard waste” bin (our trash-removal company sends an extra truck biweekly to empty and haul away the contents of this container, in addition to the bins that hold our household recyclables and garbage) — I’d pick up each branch from the ground, and if it was too large or long to fit the mouth of the bin, I would simply break the branch by shoving it in. And sometimes I would stand on one end of a branch with my boot to snap the other end off, and then toss both halves into the opening. Then I’d occasionally thrust down with both arms so as to compress the contents of the bin, and all the branches inside would crack and splinter under the force of my might.

Now, imagine what is required of an obstetrician: I’d say that, in this profession, it would be most helpful to have the polar opposite skill-set of an Expert Branch-Breaker. For when you see an infant’s leg poking out during birth, you don’t wanna treat that leg like it’s a tree branch that fell after a rainstorm: instead, you want to gently manipulate the leg’s position until the rest of the body slides out in one intact glob. Then you unplug the umbilical cord and use a special tube to clear the infant’s nostrils.

And when the newborn, upon its first time smelling the air, begins to wawl and cry, do not fret or panic: this is a good sign. It does not mean that the child is planning to give you a bad review on “Obstetricians Dot Com” — no, he or she is not clicking the “2 out of 5 stars” button on the rating hieroglyph — rather, the creative energy of a soul that has just entered this world knows not what to do beyond push air out of its lungs rapidly thru its larynx while compressing its vocal folds: this act produces waves of sound. The reason the first utterances of a recently delivered infant often seem grating to the ears of a connoisseur is that these young singers are still too inexperienced to have learned how to fine-tune the wind that gusts out of their lungs: they haven’t yet figured out how to operate the articulators within their mouth and nasal cavity, let alone master these devices with their inborn talent. They have the right tools, but they just don’t know how to use them. So, consider this, when rating and reviewing the screams of babes on the “Initial Efforts” subheading within the “Aspiring Artists” section of “Baby Wawl Dot Org” (a website I highly recommend that someone create). At least click on the pic for “2 stars out of 5”, and include the explanation:

I wanted to give ZERO stars, but the options don’t go that low; so I allowed one star for trying, and an additional star for getting born alive.