Dear diary,
Now I need to clear my mind of all this stupid stuff that’s been happening of late, so I take a long walk. I go to a secluded place in West Eden where there’s an infinitude of green rolling hillocks, and I purchase a 2002 Ferrari Enzo from the car dealership that I find on the horizon. After driving it off the lot, I modify this vehicle so that it looks exactly like a giant mechanical goat; then I weld a barn-door to the underside of his belly, which has a staircase that extends when you open it. So I climb inside and begin to pull on the joysticks that control the direction the goat faces. This causes the goat to look left and then right before she crosses the street. (I made the goat to be female, hence his king-sized metal udder that dispenses saké — an alcoholic beverage made from fermented rice, traditionally drunk warm.) When the coast looks clear, I cross.
“That was close!” I remark to myself aloud from the cockpit of the robo-goat, because we almost got smashed flat by a speeding steamroller that was chasing us.
Now I press the “Jump” button to make the goat robot frisk about among the dandelions of the hillside. Then I hold the “Trot” button and press straight Northwest on the joysticks to make the machine animal hasten to stroll forward leisurely.
“This is relaxing, after all the commotion that I’ve been thru in my daily life recently,” I say to myself. “Oh what fun it is to roam.”
Then I come to place whose sign reads Bookstore of the Universe, and I aim the horn-target so that the red scope on the interior monitor displays the building as centered in its crosshairs. When I press the “Heat” button, the bookstore melts, just like a giant block of cheese. My guess as to what happened is that deadly vibes probably came shooting out of both horns of my mechanical she-goat, and they jostled the bookstore’s molecules around so that all the text began to glow and soon turned into magma. I have hereby ruined all literature ever created.
Now we come to a rivulet, so I type into the keyboard interface the following command: “Manufacture yellow bathing-suit top from local banana peels and then go for a dip.” — I press the key labeled “Act”, and the robo-goat obeys her sinister program.
“Yee-haw!” I say, while piloting the goat-bot thru the fathomless depths of this rivulet.
Then I get bored so I open the belly-door of the mechanical goat, and the staircase extends into the deep, and I climb down and begin to drown. I try to exclaim a curse word but the saltwater fills my lungs, so I hold my peace. Then I swim back into the belly of the beast and retrieve my Astro Helmet. I put this on my head and take a few shallow breaths. Then I take my wallet out of my back pocket and flip thru my credit cards, looking at the expiration date on each one — I luckily remembered to pack my shears in my attaché case, so I use these to cut up each and every one of the plastic cards that’s outdated. This is something I meant to do before I started to go adventuring inside the mechanical goat, but I forgot; and, for some reason, the experience of nearly drowning reminded me that I should not put off for tomorrow what can be done today.
A group of college cheerleaders helps me to shore, and I thank them by distributing small porcelain cups that are filled with saké from the goat’s metal udder. Then I walk on my own two feet in my favorite direction. I accomplish this by holding my own skull’s inner joystick diagonally left and repeatedly mashing the “Pace Forth” button. Soon I encounter a red-headed woodpecker.
“Are you able to make tree sculptures in the shape of balloon animals?” I ask.
“No, I only peck wood in hopes of discovering insects that I can eat,” replies the woodpecker. “At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.”
“Hmm, OK; carry on,” I say. And the bird genuflects back and recommences his headbanging.
Now I sit down and think. The fluffy clouds are zooming around in the sky, and all of nature seems fairly happy. God is not dead yet; he’s still only sleeping. So, after about seven more moments, I reach the conclusion that I should dig myself a home.
2. Digging my Permanent Home
I use my hands and hollow out a cavity in the earth about the size of the infamous apple-shaped, black-hole robe that Jehovah and his underage angels inhabit within the famous scene of that fresco by Michelangelo which covers the Sistine Chapel ceiling — The Creation of Adam, circa 1512 (the one where Man and his Maker are fingering each other, and the LORD is the only divine being who still wears clothes).
Now that I have my hidey hole’s square footage approximated, I gut the worksite of its wires — for all of the underground of Eden is like a vast computer brain. This wire-clearing is done much like the removal of seeds and pulp from a pumpkin: You just shovel the stuff out with cupped hands. Simply leave it where it plops — the birds will eat it.
OK, now the interior of my home is finished. The walls are smooth, fake wood; and the floor is checkered marble. There is one painting hanging on the wall: it depicts a pot of honey. And I have a single window that gives me a sunny view of the upper world, despite my house existing beneath the earth — this was accomplished by way of the creative use of tunnels and mirrors; the system is not unlike an elaborate periscope.
So I sit in my armchair and fall asleep reading the newspaper. When I awake, at first I can’t figure out where I am. But then I trace backward in time thru all my recent memories, one by one, and connect the dots until I realize that this must be the new home that I built myself underneath Eden.
I look at the picture of the honey pot that’s hanging on my wall. This makes me hungry, so I decide to go out and do some hunting-and-gathering.
I grab my shotgun off the wall-rack and don my sun hat. Now I’m ready to meet the day.
“Make way, day!” I shout, as I climb out of the top of my house thru its chimney, like some sootless Anti-Santa. I stand on the grass and salute the sky: “Greetings! Why so blue?” Then I espy a Giant Glowing Ball of Fire that tries to blind me, so I aim my shotgun and shoot. The aggressor drops out of the sky and lands with a thud.
“Dear Bryan,” sez a bunny named Humper who now hops forth to interrogate me, “why did you murder the sun, just now? Don’t you know that plants need sunlight to live? Henceforth, I fear that we herbivorous creatures of the forest will need to order all our meals online, instead of simply eating them for free wherever they happen to grow out of the ground, because the source of all vegetable nourishment has at long last been exterminated.”
“Don’t worry, Humper Bun,” I pat my friend’s fuzzy noggin; “you’re unknowingly repeating the lies that those secret corporations who took over Eden’s government want you to believe. No, trust me: the plants will continue to grow — just you watch! That sun that I shot out of the sky was a fake sun, powered by fusion. (Lucky thing I brought my shotgun!) The TRUE sun is powered by the Poetic Genius.
So Humper and I now go and find a dog so that we can have something to accompany us on our walk this morning. (This was to fulfill the prophecy of Emily Dickinson: “I started Early — Took my Dog —” etc….) Then we stroll to the sea and back. It is a long, strange trip; very fun. And when we return, we all part ways: The dog returns to wherever he was living, and Humper the bunny goes hopping into the nighttime forest. My guess is that a Burning Tyger eats him and thus they become one.
Looking in the cupboards of my underground house, I’m relieved to find that I had the foresight to stock up on honey pots. “There are no less than eighteen jars here,” I say after counting. So I unscrew the top from one and begin to scoop the honey up to my snout with my paw. In a few moments, I fall asleep.
When I wake, I decide to re-read yesterday’s newspaper. “This is a really good story,” I say, remarking on the wartime atrocities that are printed on one of the back pages of the “World News” section. What I like is the fact that these horrible things are happening to other people who live elsewhere — this makes me feel comfy in my Edenic bunker.
§
On Tuesday I emerge from the top of my house thru its chimney again, like a reformed, newly virginal Satan ascending out of the depths of Hell. I greet the day: “Remain alert, daytime — after the sun, you’re next!” The landscape appears cheerful.
I notice that all plant life is thriving. “I’ll have to remind my friend Humper Bun of my prophecy,” I say aloud to myself while smiling down on all the very healthy ferns and palm leaves that cover the earth, “for I had predicted, many moments ago, that all rabbits would be able to continue consuming the plants that grow from the earth, and therefore lunch shall remain free forever to all veggie lovers, despite the fact that I annihilated light. But he didn’t seem to believe me. So this scientific proof that the plant kingdom can indeed flourish under sunless conditions will help me underline the fact that I’m usually right about most things, especially when MY God is authoring the propaganda.”
Now Humper the bunny waddles forth.
“How come you’re not hopping?” I ask. “You used to be so lithe and nimble.”
“I ate too much of the scenery,” sez Humper. “All these plants! — I’m astounded by how much free food we have nowadays. It’s just too tempting.”
“You need to learn to practice self-discipline, O Humper Bun,” I say with a smirk. “Become a warrior, and selflessly follow your duty in life. Do not waste time considering which of the current monopolists and politicians will most benefit from your sacrifice.”
“You really think that battling my fellow creatures to the death is the best way for me to keep off the extra weight?” Humper pats his rabbit-belly.
“It’s either war or diplomacy,” I say; “and you’re an animal, so you can’t talk well or listen to reason; therefore I recommend war.”
So Humper marches off and becomes a member of The Greatest Generation. He fights for Mankind, despite the fact that he is only a Rodent. He succeeds in stopping Foreign Avarice from choking the world, so that His Own Country’s Avarice can choke the world. Bravo! Encore!
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