Dear diary,
Therefore I climb into my fuchsia 1995 Dodge Neon and begin to harass people. (This is a car that I have not mentioned before — I was saving it in my neighbor’s shed until it seemed like just the right moment to take it out on a rampage. And I would mention my neighbor’s name, to give him credit, but I do not know it — in fact, I have never met him. Ever since I moved next door, his house has been vacant: Despite owning this place near mine, he spends all his time in an alternate residence located elsewhere. So I took the liberty of storing my car in his empty shed, assuming that he wouldn’t mind. — Now, come to think of it, I can’t even say that I know this absent neighbor’s gender; so, in all the preceding places where I mentioned “he” and “his”, please imagine that I added “or she” and “or her”.)
First I stop at a Flower Shop and buy a huge vase with more than fifty pink tulips in it, and I write the following message on the decorative card that is protruding from the bouquet: “You are a compassionate person!” Then I drive to one of the offices at my old law firm and walk straight over to the desk of Jessica Ess, the head manager of this division. It is still very early in the morning, when I do this; so nobody has arrived at the workplace yet. I position the vase so that the card is facing outward, with its clear greeting able to be seen by all. Then I hide in the shadows while the employees of the firm begin to show up, one by one, at the office for work. As each new colleague passes Jess’s desk and sees the display of flowers with the card, they burst out laughing. Finally the head manager Jessica herself enters into the office: She spies my gift and becomes immediately enraged. She begins berating everyone within earshot and demanding repeatedly: “Who did this!? Who did this!?” I remain in the shadows watching, straining to keep quiet as I weep with laughter. Then I sneak out the rear window and slink back into my car, without being seen. My prank was hilarious because Jessica knows that she is NOT a compassionate person — and her entire workforce knows this fact as well.
I spend the rest of my day committing similar acts of harassment. Only once do I get caught, and my victim takes me to court. The judge rules against me, and I am ordered to serve hard time. I make a lot of friends in jail, however; so, all in all, it is a rewarding experience. Whatever doesn’t kill me boosts my gall. Therefore, when the French double sliding glass doors of the jailhouse open to release me, I am twice as sinister of a criminally minded citizen as I had been before my arrival.
I head back home, with the intention of getting a little shuteye before creeping around at night to steal acorns from piglets; but, LOOK: the living room of my treehouse has been taken over by a titanic British Woman who is having tea with a titanic German Woman. There are two sofas on either side of a coffee table with a doily upon it.
“What’s this!” I shout, adding: “This is MY treehouse.”
The two usurpers sit calmly sipping their tea. Then the British Woman declares: “And who might you be?”
“My name is Bryan Ray, the Abomination of Desolation. I just got released from the Maximum Security Prison in Stillwater, Minnesota. Earlier, all the Ancient Oligarchs who reside in and around the Roman Empire tried to crucify me a number of times; but my spirit, which is fire, stood by laughing while my flesh expired on the cross, and I kept resurrecting. (You can’t keep a good messiah down.) So now I’m back and more than twice as rebellious, because I learned a lot of fresh pranx, plus the latest fashions of modern harassment, while serving my time. In other words, my fellow jailbirds taught me new songs.”
The British Woman sips her tea and replies: “My name is Eliza. Let me introduce you to Ingrid.” Then she turns to the German Woman: “Ingrid, this is Bryan Ray, the author.” Now turning back to me, she announces: “Ingrid and I were just discussing Locke and Kant.”
Here the German Woman pipes up, in a stereotypically strong accent: “Yes, Eliza was arguing on behalf of the fraudster, while I myself had sided with the brilliant savant. Would you care to join our clash?”
I nearly choke when I hear this. “Um, I’d prefer not to,” I say. Then I scramble down from the treehouse and run as fast as I can, until I reach my Dodge Neon.
“Yuck!” I shout to myself while speeding off; “how could anyone spend their time like that!? This world surely became SICK during the years I was in the slammer.”
I drive down the highway for eighty-nine hours, trying to get the bad experience out of my mind. Then I turn on the radio and immediately turn it back off, because the music that they’re playing is atrocious.
Soon I pass a scene that catches my eye. A photography team is trying to snap a shot of a girl who is posing next to a tree. I slam on my brakes and punch a hole in the ceiling of my Neon and leap out and stand on the hood:
“Need help?” I shout.
“Yes,” sez the lead photographer, and his sixteen assistants all nod their heads in agreement.
“Whatcha trying to do here?” I say. “I’m a certified aesthete, so I believe I might be able to lend you my expertise.”
“How much do you charge?” sez the photographer.
“Nothing,” I say. “I don’t believe in money. Only love.”
“Not even barter?”
“Not even barter.”
“Whew!” the photographer exhales and relaxes, “That’s lucky for us. What we’ve been trying to set up here — and we’ve been working since four in the morning on it — is a pose for this young lady’s high-school graduation picture.”
“Does the damozel have a name?” I ask.
“Yes: Stacey.”
“Stacey,” I extend my hand, “I’m Bryan Ray the famous journalist and Abomination of Desolation. Pleased to meet you.”
She kisses my hand and blushes deeply. “Thanks for coming to our rescue.”
“No prob,” I say. Then I turn to the photographer and shout: “I suppose you can’t figure out the best way to frame this scene?”
“That’s it,” sez the man; “exactly. Come and take a look at the viewfinder — now, note that if I lower the shot so that her shoes can be seen, then those two winged lions also appear flanking her at ground-level there; whereas when I zoom out so that her face enters the frame, then the evil aliens who are hovering behind her in the sky invade the upper third of the composition. I’m trying to make the image tasteful, and I don’t want to go to the trouble of editing out a bunch of stuff in the post-production phase, after the fact, by using computerized manipulation tools that superimpose green bushes or carrion crows over unwanted visual elements. I’d rather just dip the negatives in the chemical bath, and use one of those soft red light-bulbs in the dark room, just to set the mood, and then employ wooden clothespins to attach the prints to the line while they dry. Does that make sense?”
“Well, everything you’re talking about is half wrong, and I think you’re using technologies that are either outdated or futuristic,” I say; “but I can certainly help you frame this — THAT part’s easy.”
Stacey, the subject of the photograph, looks pleased that I said this.
“Listen carefully,” I drape my arm around the photographer while using my free hand to gesture wildly at the scene that lies before us. “You’re too worried about trying to omit the natural attractions of both the foreground and the background. What you’re failing to consider is that winged lions are sublime — they’re known as ‘cherubim’, actually. And these beings in the sky that you referred to as evil aliens are scientifically classified as ‘seraphim’, which is a species of angel. Again, these things are not exactly pretty but they’re thrillingly photogenic. So, stop trying to eliminate points of interest from your shot, just because they’re hostile and terrifying — instead, learn to work with the parts of your landscape that might be prone to bamboozle an audience: the aim of your craft is not to soothe spectators to sleep. Sometimes it’s better to have a graduation picture that scares the living heck out of people. Art that’s true to life is nothing to be ashamed of.”
On concluding my speech, Stacey, the grad who is modeling, beams brightly and stares at me like one who’s in love. Also, the lead photographer permits a smile to creep onto his visage; and he nods and replies:
“I think I get what you’re saying. Leave the lions and aliens IN — don’t try to hide them, especially when doing so forces the subject’s legs and head out-of-frame. Instead, I should find a way to make what seem to be the flaws of the given situation into strengths, by accenting them with artistic confidence: my audience then might take me for a genius.”
“Not ‘might’, but they WILL take you so,” I pat my fellow artist on the back; “for you are a genius, as much as everyone else,” here I motion grandly to indicate all the assistants who are gathered before us taking notes, “you’ve just been working hard to hide it.”
§
So Stacey’s graduation photo turns out really well. She makes multiple copies and gives them to all of her friends and family. Then she goes to college and becomes a creative writer — a poet, specifically. She gets her degree and commences publishing volume after volume of successful verse. Moreover, while doing so, she earns a hefty salary to support her spouses and children.
My own personal opinion is that Stacey is our best living poet, and her books are among the finest in the Western Canon. Look at these tomes that I am handing you now from my bookshelf, gentle reader: Note that I ended up writing not just one but two thick, scholarly collections of original essays praising Stacey — and literary criticism isn’t really even my thing! That’s how much I love her poetry.
§
Anyway, following the above diversion, after the grad photo is snapped, I kiss my new group of friends goodbye; then I hop in my fuchsia Dodge Neon, squeal my tires, and speed down the highway leaving behind me two fiery treadmarks.
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