Coming and going (Another filler chapter)

Dear diary,

Now, at this point in our story, when the Christmas tree popped up, I knew I was doomed; for my name is Bryan Ray the Abomination of Desolation, thus the holiday season does not agree with me. 

So I turn to my friend Lucy, who has been walking beside me thru Eden for the last few chapters, and I say:

“You know it’s been a few days since we stopped to order food or drinks anywhere, and all I can think to write about in my travelogue are dining experiences, which is why we spend so much time in booths at local cafés and restaurants; therefore I assume that the God of this novel is fixing to betray me.”

“You’re kidding,” sez Lucy; “are you talking about the God whom you spoke with earlier — the one with the licky Lamb?”

“To be honest, I don’t know,” I say; “I don’t remember that scene.”

And while I am saying this, my extended family members begin conspiring with the rest of society, including the church and state; and they attend a secret meeting with the God of this World. And they pray, saying: “God?” And God answers their prayer and sez: “Wut.” And they pray: “We want this and that.” And God prays back, saying: “I will give you this and that, provided that you sacrifice my son Bryan Ray the Abomination of Desolation.” And they pray: “OK, thx.” And the deal is sealed.

So they hire a doofus generation to kill Bryan by acting stupid before him continually, so that he ends up leaning forward upon his own sword; but then one of the Espionage Agents who was advising them whispers loudly: “NO! Don’t assassinate him YET — not on the feast day, lest there be an uproar among the people!!!”

So my doctor wakes me up from my deceased state and informs me that he was only joking when he diagnosed my heart as having stopped beating after it got riven by my sword: “Contrariwise,” Doc explains: “you actually have a few more moments to live.” And he adds that I’m not dead from leprosy already either (he misdiagnosed my corpse as being leprous when its flesh started to rot and fall off after spending an age in the grave); “...in fact, quite the opposite,” Doc backtracks, “I’ll anoint you with ointment, so that your skin can shine and look healthy and youthful.” Now the doctor orders his Ladies of the Night to wheel in an alabaster cabinet filled with vials of very precious perfumes, and they pour these on my head. And when my fan club sends complaint letters about how this act was gratuitous because all the scents from all the potions blended together and either cancelled each other out or clashed and smelled worse than insect repellent, I myself write back the following argument and publish it on my blog: 

“But, remember: I had slaughtered myself — so these harlots were just trying to mask the truth: for ANYTHING beats the smell of a dead, rotting human.” 

And this causes my fan club to finally admit that the reason they habitually complain about the Ladies of the Night is that they (all the members of my fan club) are sexist misogynists. So, in answer, I write back again: “Oh, well, at least you’re honest,” and then I donate them to the church.

But when my biological mother gets wind of what is happening, she dials the State Thug hotline and sez: “I’ll deliver my undead son to you on a platter if you will give me a thirty percent discount on my Cable TV bill.”

So now I go attend Christmas dinner with my family. And, as my sister is preaching a pre-meal prayer at Mary the Magdalene, I interrupt by saying: “Psst!” and then I whisper: “One of you has betrayed me, and I know who it is!” then I jerk my head in the direction of my earthly mother, who is pretending to keep her eyes closed during the prayer that my sister is STILL blabbing.

And my entire extended family feigns sorrow and sez: “No! That can’t be true — your own mother would never call the State Thug Hotline and rat you out as a freethinker and a poetry-loving humanist; that’s impossible, for she claims that she’s a true disciple of Saint Paul!” And I answer back, in my most raspy whisper yet: “Anything is possible when God enters into the equation.”

Now a small, ugly mutt that is stinking wet from the rain enters the room and heads straight for my mother, who begins to baby-talk loudly at the creature. 

My sister halts her prayer-sermon and sez: “Mom. Mom.” And our mother answers: “Oh, sorry,” and keeps petting the dog but lowers her voice.

And my sister physically shoos our mother out of the room, and the ugly dog accompanies her. — Now, at this time, I stand and take advantage of the calm that has pervaded the banquet hall. I reach forth my arm and grab one of the chicken gizzards from the serving plate and announce: “When you eat these gizzards, you’re basically eating MY gizzard.” Then I ask my brother Paul J. (not the Apostle) to pass the platter that has the wondrous concoction of marinated duck meat, and I search thru it with my hands until I locate an intact liver, which I hold high so that everyone can see while I say: “And when you eat this liver, you are eating MY OWN liver.” Then I pat the tub of red rum to my right, and it makes a splendid sound, like an ocean of liquor jiggling, and I conclude my routine as follows: “See this tub of rum? Have you ever wanted to be a vampyre? Then grow some fangs and suck your fill, because I AM.” 

Now I raise my hands and lead the family in a Drinking Hymn.

Toward the end of the evening, I rise from the table and tap a spoon against the side of my goblet, to get everyone’s attention (there is a roar of conversation, we’re all having such a good time), and I say “This has been the best Passover Celebration that I’ve ever starred in. Usually it’s not so enjoyable; but it helped a lot when my mom and sister left the premises. Now, I don’t know what you all are planning to do after the party, but I’m going to visit the Mount of Olives. You can take up your cross and follow me there or not — suit yourself; it’s your dime.” 

Now all my friends and family gasp and are offended at this parting speech of mine, because they properly interpret it to mean that I am planning on letting the State’s Private Intelligence Agencies suicide me again.

And, as I slowly but determinedly walk away from the table, you can hear the click of my steel-soled loafers on the banquet hall’s black-and-white zigzag floor-tiles.

First I stop in Galilee and purchase some cigarillos. Then I walk to a place called Gethsemane, and I turn around and look behind me and see that there is a small group of disciples who have followed me here, including my best femme Lucy. “Hey, hi!” I say. Then I pull Lucy aside and lower my voice: “Will you sing them a lullabye while I go supplicate our Original?” 

“Sure!” sez Luce, and she smiles and winks.

And I walk about a tenth of a parasang off; then I turn and listen to the song that Lucy is crooning in her “opera voice”. Although the lyrics are in English, they’re unintelligible, on account of her strange way of enunciating. I close my eyes to better enjoy the moment, and I myself almost fall asleep on my feet; so I jolt back to consciousness and shake myself like a dog; then, trying to mask how moved I was by the previous scene, I clear my throat gruffly and saunter away to the pleasure garden, where I extend my arms in “T”-style before the Youth Fountain:

“Author!” I shout. “Novelist! Gospelist!”

My words echo throughout the mountains in the background.

“Wake up,” I shout, “and listen!”

These words echo as well. But, from this point forward, the rest of the words of my tirade are eerily echoless:

“Seriously, please stop laughing and give ear. This is Bryan Ray the character, the Abomination of Desolation, standing where I should not be, to address YOU, you mythy sack of dreams.”

And then I stop and think what to say next, because I’m kind of stupid.

“Alright, shut up and listen. Why can’t we just end the farce right here? This thing is going nowhere: we’re lost; we’ve stumbled into another gospel retelling. Could things sink any lower? (Don’t answer that.) OK, OK, I’m starting to feel fear again — I guess that’s your reply. So I’ll go thru with this harebrained mission. I just thought it might be worth trying to change your mind. Boy was I wrong.”

Now I lower my arms and slouch back to Lucy. She’s sitting on a smooth rock, reading Rumors of Sarah and giggling to herself. “Hey,” I say. “Looks like our audience is napping,” and I nod to the small group of followers at Lucy’s feet.

“Yeah, they all fell fast asleep, just after you left,” Lucy sez. 

I stand for a moment and gaze on the peaceful faces of these slumberers. Then I place my hand on Lucy’s shoulder, inhale deeply and say, “Well, should we go?”

Lucy smiles and nods in the direction of the main road, where a mob of soldiers are approaching from behind a corporate news broadcasting tower, being led by a meek little lady. “I was going to say, ‘Let’s get this over with’,” replies Lucy; “but, look: here comes your mom.”

Stopping about a stone’s throw away, my mother raises her arm and points at me: “Ay, there’s the rub.” 

While mercenaries manacle my arms, one of them draws his sword and cuts my ear clean off. This signifies that I am the reincarnation of Vincent van Gogh. Also, as a bonus, after my severed ear falls in the grass of the field, it becomes the impetus of the plot of the film Blue Velvet (1986). 

I turn and look this soldier in the eye — the man who just cut me — and I say: “What type of sword is that, that you’re using? Will you hold it up so that I can get a better look at it?” And the mercenary complies; then I remark: “Ah, nice — that’s quality work. You should see the glittering saber I stole from your boss.” And the man does not know what to do with this information; he just half-smiles, finding himself unable to break our eye-contact, as I stare while blood keeps dripping down the side of my head.

Now, at this point, I say a prayer to my Father, Bryan Ray Senior (who has just awakened in his cradle, because I couldn’t make it back home this afternoon to chloroform him, since the authoritarian thugs were busy arresting me), and he presently sends me more than thirteen legions of angels.

These angels help me escape from the above predicament. I hate availing myself of their aid, because I feel like we’re cheating; but in this case, I was getting tired of futzing around.

And, for the sake of full disclosure, I should mention that all of these works of magic were performed simply to fulfill my previous scriptures (even the one where we installed the mesh roof over the chicken coop). For I had written two volumes of Self-Amusements aforetime, and then these later novels exist to represent the fructification of their forerunners’ unfinishedness.

[To be continued . . . ]