Dear diary,
But I tire of changing back and forth between two divine beings; so I decide to make an improvement to the upper atmosphere and the outer darkness, by rearranging all the lamps that hang on nothing and which determine not only one’s astrological sign but also dictate world events (see Genesis 1:14-18); and this causes each day and night to be neither day nor night, but both remain half-gray throughout — a zone of twilight — and there is subsequently no longer any climate or weather.
Thus, because my multiple-personality disorder was dependent on whether it’s noon or night and how pregnant the moon is, I can now remain forever 100% Doctor Bryan the Wolfman and also 100% Tolsteer-Yoshi, Gentleman; likewise my transportation remains 100% SanchoKong-MukDonk the Ass-Stallion and also 100% Hummingbird Fruit-Bat. — For convenience, henceforward I shall refer to myself and my riding companion as follows: probably I’ll just call myself Bryan, or Bryan Ray, or Author or King; and I’ll call my horse/bird-rodent whatever model of U.S. automobile that strikes me as cool at the moment. So our story is now pretty much back to normal. I’m sorry that it got out-of-hand for a little while there.
Now I transmogrify into the entire collection of Roman Emperors, living or dead, and go on a hugging spree. I hug absolutely everything. And nothing really wants me to be hugging it. (I also sniff hair.) I hug walls; I hug pipes; I hug household appliances; and I hug all rocks that are larger than my arms can span. (I use reacharound-ability as my red-line-in-the-sand cut-off point when it comes to rocks, otherwise I’d be hugging every pebble or speck of dust in the universe.) Then I drive home in my nondescript Pontiac.
I enter my hut and sit in my wooden chair. I rock backwards so that I’m tilting and my boots are kicked up on the table. I have a lifetime supply of booze, so now I just drink while waiting for my story to end.
While drinking, I start thinking. First I think of my parents and my upbringing. This leads me to makeshift two stuffed dolls (of course I keep drinking while I do this) — one doll looks like my earthly father, and the other doll looks like my biological mother. I set these dolls on the table before me and continue drinking for a while. Then I casually begin to poke each doll with my survival knife, and I also use matches to burn the dolls; etc.
§
After sleeping for millions and billions and trillions and quintillions and gazillions and thrillions of ages, I wake up in the farthest future. So I end up drinking myself to death again.
MORAL: It is bad to bring children into this world.
Now I go outside to read a book. I never read books indoors. I walk along the grass of the gently sloping hillocks of Planet Kenoma until I find a palm tree that has a fiery bird in its branches. Then I sit down and open the volume. Soon I am approached by my friend, a small human named Pig.
“Hello, Bryan,” sez Pig. “Whatcha doin’?”
“I was just preparing to read this book,” I say, holding up one of my own storybooks that I wrote about myself. “Sit down here under this tree with me, and I will read aloud to you.”
“OK,” sez Pig.
Then I begin to read the first page of the book:
Once upon a time, BIG BANG! Bryan awakes on Planet Pleroma. He immediately decides to think. Soon his friend Pig joins him in thinking. Now the two are thinking together.
At this point of the story, a humanoid businessperson named Humper Bunny enters into their thoughts.
“Hello, Humper! Welcome to our thoughts and prayers,” say the authors of the story.
“Hi,” sez the pink-eyed Humper Bunny. “No time to talk. I’m angry.”
“Why so enraged and depressed?” say Bryan and Pig. (Bryan sez the part before the word “and”, and Pig adds the rest.)
“Cuz I’m late for work,” shouts Humper, as he hops toward the vanishing point of the Fullness.
“Why not quit your job and recline here with us,” I yell. “Then we can all think together.”
“Because,” shouts Humper, “I need to feed my family — I have very many children, due to my belief in procreation — and laboring for wages is the only way that I can earn enough cash to buy carrots to sustain my family’s existence. (I sell my mind, body, and time; then purchase food for U.S. dollars.) For carrots cannot be found in the ground; they do not grow there. There is no free lunch.”
Pig and I think for a long time about this. At first, we almost ask Humper Bun some questions, but then we decide against doing this, because we fear that an argument might erupt. So instead we say:
“Repent of your wage-laboring. Come back and enjoy the day with us. The worst that can happen is that you and your family will die of want. But weren’t you all doomed to that normal fate anyway? Why not enjoy life while you have it?”
Humper Bunny returns. “You have persuaded me, but I’m scared.”
“Scared of what?” asks Pig.
“I am scared to death of death,” sez poor Humper, the formerly hardworking businessperson.
Here’s where I motion for old Hump to sit down with us under the palm tree, and I drape my arm around his fuzzy form and begin preachifying:
“Death has been around since the last time that I fell asleep, and look: all of these things are still here — we have grass, we have hillocks, we have palm trees… Therefore, do not worry about it. I guarantee that everyone will expire no matter how much anyone prepares: that is our world’s merciful donnée. So you might as well do what evokes a tingly feeling of love-for-all. Now, please go use my telephone booth to call your family over here so that we can start in on some group-think. In the meantime, Pig and I will pitch in and do little bits of work at our leisure to feed them (your spawn, I mean). That way, none of us needs to either expire prematurely or endure an indefinitely extended existence as an invalid — we can all simply die at the right time.”
Humper Bunny is happified by my sermon. He now hops over to the glass telephone booth that was made famous from the 1963 film The Birds. He places his briefcase on the ground, extracts a coin out of the pocket of his business suit, and dials a number. Seagulls continue divebombing the booth, cracking its glass, while he speaks with his spouse:
“Hon, pack the kids in a tub and hire a gringo to wheel you all over here to meet me. I’m with Bryan and Pig; we’re just leaning and loafing near the base of Stevens’ Palm. Do you know where that is? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. YES! Good, so I’ll see you in about fifteen moments? OK, then: kissy-kiss. I love you too!”
Humper Bunny hops back out of the booth and dodges the seagulls to return to Pig and me.
“How did it go? The phone call, I mean,” I ask, nervous about what Humper’s answer will be (his spouse is known to be judgmental, hot-tempered and unforgiving); “is everything alright? I’ll take the blame, if he’s enraged.”
“No, everything turned out smoothly,” announces Humper. “They’re wheelbarrowing toward us as we speak.”
“Oh, good!” I exhale in relief.
[To be continued...]
No comments:
Post a Comment