(More pen-testing first. I keep a lot of felt-tips and other markers in a giant wicker basket, and many of these devices have gone dry while waiting to be used; and, since it is annoying to find out that your utensil does not work while actually attempting to draw with it, I cull my pens by making these scribble-fests.)
Dear diary,
I’m still hard at work archiving and rounding up all my entries from this online scroll here so that they can be saved in book form. Looking back at old entries makes me aware that I used to commit a lot more personal reflections to these pages, and I relayed a lot more stories about family and neighborhood goings-on; whereas lately I’ve just been experimenting with little pointless half-stories or weird reworkings of known plots. I myself prefer the latter, but I assume that most readers would rather have me continue with the former; and I honestly would do that, if I had anything personal to report — but my life sorta faded away, even before the virus plague; and then the lockdown literally sealed the deal. So I simply don’t see my family or friends anymore. I’ve been voluntarily following the prescribed quarantine since March 11 of this year: staying inside and only leaving once per day for exercise (just like in prison): one short walk thru the local neighborhood, where I avoid close contact with everyone. So only occasionally I’ll pass a neighbor who’s out working in his yard, and we’ll exchange simple greetings at a distance, but nothing much can come of that. Even so, I’ve reported those run-ins here; but I’ve let them melt in the telling, or encoded them so dreamily that they’re obscured; like my entry from 3-July-2020, which is basically a repeating of details that one of my neighbors told me about his own father, when we stopped to yell-chat with each other (maintaining a 25-foot distance between us at all times, to thwart the transfer of pathogens) — his dad worked as an electrician and a fireman.
So I wonder what I could say that would count as more personal. For my intention is to be a dutiful member of society. But I have no personal life: I’ve thrown my whole being into the task of preserving these journal entries — my thot is that I’ve spent so much time and energy on them that it’d be a shame for them to go to waste; for not many people have seen them yet.
But, on the other hand, why would anyone want to read this rambling account? When I think of receiving a book that collects someone else’s weblog postings, there’s only a couple people whose efforts I’d actually wanna peruse; but most other people…
Actually, I’d like to read anyone’s journals and essays, just as long as they don’t talk too much about stupid things like alternative medicine or modern western medicine. Or yoga and mindfulness.
*
I used to hate Christianity, but now I love Christianity. But then every time I talk to another Christian, I end up hating Christianity again, for a while, until my love regenerates (like the tail of a lizard).
The problem is that no one ever went to the trouble of nailing down a definition of Christianity, so that term just means whatever anyone wants it to mean. Thus, if self-styled Christians leave me alone for a length of time, I forget the meaning with which they instill that word, and I charge the same concept with notions that I myself find appealing, like “forgiveness of debts”; and the “Poetic Genius”, which the Hebrew Scripture (if not Christianity) is replete with. — So that is what happens when I’m doing the defining. But then all the other Christians out there fill the word with cheesecake and automobiles, American football games and the amassing of personal property. “Resist not evil” (Matt. 5:39) becomes “Resist evil”, and “turn the other cheek” becomes perpetual warfare...
*
But one thing that turned out good about the U.S. “War on Terror” is that terror ultimately lost, cuz we United Statesians always win. So now there’s no terror anywhere. And that really helps with my anxiety disorder.
*
Yeah, I don’t see what type of life is gonna be able to exist beyond this pandemic, in the aftermath of poverty that the plague leaves in its wake. Businesses in the U.S. were forced to shut down; but then, because our manmade economic system here chooses to value only money and not people, all those who lost their source of income are now just left to suffer a decline and expire. So the guy who would cure cancer is now gonna die without curing cancer. And the person who would make the perfect soul-mate for your child is now destroyed by some easily avoidable tragedy, and thus your child shall marry an abusive spouse instead.
*
Should you plan for the future? Sure, you can plan for the future, if you like; but it’s not very fun.
And now I imagine a heckler saying “This existence is not about fun; it’s about depth of consciousness, compassionate relationships, distinguished creation, human dignity, & harmonization with every living thing.”
“Fine,” I say; “then swap out my word ‘fun’ with all that. I was just trying to be pithy & to save money on ink, for once.” (God, hecklers are annoying.)
*
So you can write in your diary all you want, and it can turn out good or bad; and people will either be around to read it, or not; and those people who read it will either find it stimulating and provocative, or they’ll find it too confusing or tedious; and all this PROFIT-&-LOSS will get recorded in some adjacent dimension elsewhere which we may or may not ever partake in, and the result will be that a shiny insect will be born to selfish parents rather than naughty parents.
Therefore, die trying; and practice moderation in substance abuse. (Remember: healthy food is also a substance.)
*
& I hope that I live for a long, long time; but, if it turns out that the system extinguishes me, then with regard to the question of “Burial or cremation?” I say as follows:
I don’t desire to be eaten alive; but as long as I’m truly dead, I fancy the idea of humans ingesting my flesh, as a well-prepared feast. Caring people, tho: not business executives or anyone who’s so stressed out that they have digestive problems. I just don’t want all this fine meat to go to waste, especially when there’s a food shortage.
I don’t think there’s anything special about the act of eating a prophet, tho. I don’t believe that I’ll somehow become some aspect of the people who consume me; I just think that since my cells went to the trouble of collaging so much energy together, someone else’s cells should benefit from this work; like, if you’re building a house, and there’s a dilapidated house next door which is not inhabited, moreover that old deserted place boasts a perfectly good door frame, then why not use it for your own build, rather than constructing a new frame from scratch? It saves time and effort. Plus then a couple trees that would’ve been cut down for the purpose will instead get to enjoy a few more days of being tormented by birds.
So I’m not like Jesus. I don’t believe that anyone gets anything out of eating me. And I don’t really care what you do with my succulent blood — if you wanna drink it, then drink it; but if you’d rather pour it out, then pour it out on the hot desert sand (you’ll regret this later).
When the disciples sat down to eat, Jesus took bread and blessed it, and brake it, and gave to them, and said, “Take, eat: this is my body.” And he took the cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them: and they all drank of it. And he said unto them, “This is my blood of the revised testament, which is shed for many. Verily I say unto you, I will drink no more of the fruit of the vine, here with you on earth; for today I drink it new in the Kingdom of God.”
And when they had sung an hymn, they went out into the Mount of Olives, where Jesus was taken up; and a cloud received him out of their sight; & then his pelt fell back down out of the heavens, & they straightway devoured it.
That’s from the Gospel of Mark (14:22-26) and Acts (1:9). Now here’s the sequel, from Zechariah (14:4):
Then Jehovah gathered all nations against Jerusalem to battle; and the city was taken, and the houses rifled, and the women ravished; and half of the city went forth into captivity, and the residue of the people were cut off from the city.
And Jehovah went forth and fought against those nations, as when he fought in the battles of ancient days.
And his feet stood that day upon the Mount of Olives, whence Messiah had ascended, which is before Jerusalem on the east, and the Mount of Olives was rent asunder in its midst thereof toward the east and toward the west, and there was a very great valley; and half of the mountain removed toward the north, and half of it toward the south.
So, just to clarify this eschatology, what happened is that Jesus ate his last meal with his disciples; then they sang a song and went to the mount of Olives, where Jesus was lifted into the sky by a tractor beam (which is a beam of energy that can be used to move objects such as space ships or saviors & hold them stationary for millennia while they transform into their own progenitors or other types of vehicles); then, once Jesus had become Jehovah, he waited poised upon a firm cloud until his city Jerusalem was thoroughly ambushed by all the nations; then he sprang down and fought personally against the nations, reprising his role as a Warrior God from the days of old. And he swung his sword so hard that the place where his feet were planted, on the Mount of Olives, clove in twain — that is, it actually split apart — causing the earth to divide and reveal the pit of Hell beneath, which was full of fire & brimstone. Thus with his stance compromised, & his legs straddling this gulf of the newly split Mount, he began to lose his balance.
Closing Note
An important rule about the morality of predation, however, is that one should always appear more attractive than one’s victims. Behold the robins dancing around on my lawn all day: see how that one over yonder just nabbed a droopy worm with her sharp beak! Look close at the worm, & then look back at the robin — now ask yourself: “Which creature is prettier?”
Since the worm is ugly, it is proper that it become the food of the robin. (This is how evil blesses: it is right for disgusting creatures to be translated into beautiful creatures.) Also swap the word “pretty” for “complex”, in the above equation, and it works even better. For perhaps the bloom of a rose is slightly more inviting than the stare of a human taskmaster, but since a human is more complex than mere plant-life, it is God’s will that these wise vegetarians eat a strict diet of flowers. Plus dolphins are at once more gorgeous and far sophisticated·er than herring, cod, or mackerel. So all’s well that ends well.
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