Dear diary,
When her victory dance is finished, I walk over and take Monica by the shoulders and stare directly into her eyes and say: “Well done, my faithful servant.” She and I visibly have a hard time maintaining our composure thru this moment — it is obvious that we both are on the verge of breaking character and bursting into laughter; but we manage to hold it together, just barely, as we remain there face-to-face with the typically sentimental “end of the movie” musical score saccharinizing the soundtrack.
Now, letting go of Monica, I crouch down and retrieve the King James Bible from God’s marsupium. Handing it to Anna, I say: “Please read the first seven verses of chapter eleven of Saint John’s gospel.”
Anna rolls her eyes and accepts the book and opens it: “Now as Zarathustra passed by,” she reads, “he saw that God was dead. And the angels asked him, saying, ‘Master, who did sin, our Creator, or his creation, that the Archons of This World allowed him to be suicided?’ Thus spake Zarathustra: ‘Neither hath our Creator sinned, nor his creation: but this was permitted so that a Work of Art could be made. We are names on pages, and a false scribe composes our fate. This scribe is not like the scribes of tradition, who work during the day, when it is easy to see what one has written, while purpose and reason dam what is possible; but our scribe worketh in the dark, even after his scholar’s candle hath burnt out, and the bulb of the lamp at the desk hath failed, and the electricity hath been cut; plus the sun gat strook from out of the sky. As long as I, the scribe’s alter ego, exist, our book shall continue; for, once I leave, our true author loses interest.’ And when he had thus spoken, he spat on the ground, and made clay of the spittle, and he anointed the blind eyes of God with the clay, and said unto him: ‘Go, baptize thyself, floodmaker: not as a sign or a symbol of a cleansing act, but to purify the epidermis of thy great white bulk.’ — He went his way therefore, and swam, and came alive, and his eyes were opened, and he saw, for the first time, beyond good and evil. Then he spun round like a flame-sword and puked himself up on dry land.” Anna snaps the book shut and tosses it back.
I catch the book and say: “OK, now watch this.”
I hold my hands over the bloody head of God, which is deformed with its multiple bullet wounds. Now blue voodoo rays begin to emanate from my palms and into the corpse. Soon the wounds heal, and there is only left a small dent on the side of the enormous Godhead, where the bone shows thru. God’s eyes unclose and his expression is euphoric. I shut off my voodoo force.
“Thank you!” sez God.
“Are you alright?” I say.
“I feel as tho I have been born from above.”
“That’s cuz I healed you.”
“Seriously? Was I injured? I don’t even remember.”
“Good. Forgetfulness is a blessing. So is laughter.” (I say this because God has started to laugh.)
“Why am I lying on the ground? Did you all have your way with me?” God arises, grinning eagerly.
“No, no one would ever do that, believe me. God forbid.”
God is taken aback and seems slightly insulted: “What? Why not?”
“Um… cuz we respect you.”
“Oh,” sez God. “Huh. I see.”
“You look well — there don’t seem to be any complications from having been dead for those last few moments…”
“I feel gr-r-reat,” sez God.
“And you’re not vengeful about losing a fragment of your eternal life, I hope?”
“No, no, of course not. I am compassionate and merciful.”
I turn and address my fellow-herdsmen, “Well, he seems to be stable. Shall we continue to walk?”
“Where are we going?” sez Fernando.
“We’re just traveling over these stones and streams. Eventually we should reach some plains, and some hills and valleys.”
“But do we have any particular aim or destination?”
“No,” I say.
Then, after thinking for a moment, Fernando sez: “Sure, let’s go.”
So we all twitch our blue mantles and stroll toward the beautiful landscape; which is rocks and rivers, as far as the eye can see.
§
After a few days of easeful walking and light conversation, Jeanette breathes in sharply and sez: “A thought just struck me: What happened to all our livestock?”
The herdsmen Anna and Monica look left and right. Fernando opens his notepad. God peeks into his marsupium.
“They’re all safe in Eagan, remember?” I say. “They’re grazing on and around the suburban streets and meandering thru people’s houses and yards. We can visit them again, whenever we like — in the meantime, I can tell that all the creatures are doing fine, because our neighbor Joe recently adjusted his security camera: He was out there with a tall ladder the other day, when we all rode past on our bicycles, and he gave us a friendly greeting.”
This satisfies the whole group, as everyone’s memory matches the moment I mentioned. Even God remembers biking alongside us.
So we continue to walk at a leisurely pace over the stones and the streams.
Soon we come to a frog who would prove to be a human prince, if only one of us would kiss him; so Fernando sez: “Look! a frog.” But God replies: “That is no frog but a stone,” and he steps forward and lifts the frog in his hand and proves the fact to Fernando and the rest of us. We are awed by this.
Then we walk for many more days over the rivers and streams with their rocks, boulders, and pebbles, until we come to a stone that quite forcefully captures God’s attention: “Look!” he sez: “Here’s one that resembles the Virgin Mary’s womb.” And he takes it up carefully in his large hands, as if it is a precious work of art.
“Couldn’t we say that it represents any womb in general?” I ask; “I mean, why specify precisely the womb of Mary Magdalene, during the time when she was still working as a ‘lady of the night’, a ‘scarlet woman’, a ‘grande horizontale’…”
Anna Karina now tugs my mantle to signify that I should stop my speech if I wish to avoid overstepping the bounds of politeness; for she presumes that, if I continue, I am sure to enkindle God’s wrath. God, however, proves Anna’s concern unjustified; for he reacts with gentleness and understanding: He holds up the stone so that we can see it closer, while explaining in detail certain unique traits and pointing out like a connoisseur various noteworthy features; thus God demonstrates why this stone does not just bring to mind any old womb but is remarkably similar to the home of the immaculate conception.
We admit that, again, we’re all surprised: We didn’t think that he’d be able to convince us.
As we continue to amble, we note several other rocks amid the channels of water which recall other earthly things. There’s one vast plume-riddled stone that looks like a fire; another that has the exact proportions of an hourglass; and yet another boulder that looks like a thundercloud lying on its side with a zigzag piece of lightning protruding from its puffiness. (God demonstrates how this “bolt” contains genuine electricity: He does this by creating a marmoset from nothing and then touching the creature to the surface of the jag, which zaps the life out of it. This fills the air with a scent of roasted flesh and burnt fur; and God eats the thing like popcorn.) We eventually encounter a stone that looks like a turtle — “It IS a turtle!” I say; then, remembering the scene from the biblical book (Numbers 20:11), I run forth and tap the stone two times with my shepherd’s rod, thinking appendages and a dusty green head will emerge from the shell, but all the rock does is gush water. God laughs at my ineptitude, yet then abruptly stops and sternly snaps “Do not drink that,” when he sees me taking a sip of the spring. I obey; but, from what little I tasted, I can already feel a slight buzz of superpower coursing thru my veins.
While trekking on, Monica points out a rock that looks like the forbidden fruit from Eden. God chips his tooth on it. Then there’s a marble rock that looks like King David, which we all stare at long and long. And then later in the evening God ends up scolding me again, tho this time only playfully, as he catches me licking a rock that looks like Lot’s wife (Genesis 19:26).
We now stop and eat lunch. Anna and Fernando brought picnic baskets filled with wine, olives and goat cheese. Each of us herdsmen takes a seat on one of a series of rocks, which all have the identical shape: every stone resembles a 1998 Fiat Multipla (a famous automobile adored by car-lovers).
“These boulders look almost manmade; and their positioning seems to hint at a distinct purpose, perhaps astronomical. I wonder if this site was some sort of ancient observatory,” God remarks.
We all enjoy our food, and we’re thankful that Fernando packed additional wine.
§
After a short nap, we continue our travels.
We step thru many of the same rivers twice, some even upwards of nine times; and we find many rocks along the way. Presently we hit a stretch where all the rocks resemble only themselves; that is: rough-hewn rocks. No two are alike, but they all share that same vague nondescript character.
God picks up stone after stone and pontificates about their features, and he shares the way that each one makes him feel.
Now we come to a boulder as big as a mountain. “I bet you can’t lift that,” sez Monica to God. God rises to the challenge. We hear something snap, deep in the depths of the divine interior, but God does manage to move the mountain for Monica Vitti.
“Hey, God,” I say, as he’s slouching along with us after the mountain marvel, “is it true that you can create a rock so heavy that even you yourself cannot lift it?”
“Yes, that is true,” God nods with his eyes closed.
“Well then how come you’ve never done it?” I say. “I’m asking seriously — this is not a trick question.”
“I feel no need to prove myself,” sez God. “If you possess authentic strength, as I do, then you don’t care who doubts your ability — for you yourself KNOW that you are the best and the brightest. Why destroy oneself to demonstrate one’s omnipotence? That seems stupid.”
“But don’t you think it would be fun?”
“It IS fun.”
“So you’ve actually tried it?” I smile. “That contradicts what you just said!”
“No it doesn’t,” sez God, as he winces with pain and holds his side.
“Are you OK?” I ask, now growing concerned.
“I’ll be fine,” sez God.
Then we discover a rock that looks like an atom; tho blown-up, of course. Then we find a rock that looks like a quark; also enlarged so that we can see its flavor and spin.
After fifty-six hundred more miles (which I’ve been told is the width of Russia, from east to west), we find a rock that looks like the gravity particle. Then we find a rock that looks like the Holy Spirit.
Now we finally spot a diner. “Let’s stop here,” God points to the neon sign in the distance; “I need to use the facilities.”
(“Thar she blows,” Fernando whispers to me, and we snicker.)
So we all climb into the big black booth at the back and order bottomless jugs of vodka, plus a kale smoothie for God.
Twenty-three hours later, the waiter returns and sez: “Would you like anything other than the drinx?”
“Well, we were just acquiring an appetite,” sez Jeanette. “Maybe come back in half a moment. God still hasn’t finished his smoothie.”
“I’m nursing it because I do not like it much,” God explains.
So when the waiter returns after a couple days, he addresses Jeanette MacDonald as if she’s our keeper, since she’s the one who answered for us all the last time we interacted. “Ready yet?” he sez.
“Yes,” sez Jeanette. “You go first, Bry,” she nods to me.
I tip back my tall glass, finish my vodka, and say: “I’ll order the roasted corn on the cob.”
The waiter turns toward Anna: “And for you?”
“I’ll have the cheese curds.”
Now Monica answers: “Deep fried chickpeas. Plus a frozen apple cider.”
“Very refreshing and inexpensive!” the waiter approves.
Now I interrupt to add some items to my order: “Could I also have at least two corn dogs?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“Please, call me Mitzy,” I joke.
“Oui, Mitzy-Bitzy-Pitzy,” the waiter plays along, mimicking the way that Maurice Chevalier talks in the musical comedy One Hour with You (1932) — it’s another film co-starring Jeanette MacDonald and directed by Ernst Lubitsch; that’s probably why it’s on our mind at this moment. (This waiter’s silly side pleases me deeply — he seemed like such a stick-in-the-mud before — so I hold out my hand for him to kiss, and he does so sarcastically. We all share a laugh.)
Now it’s God’s turn. He points to the menu: “I’ll take this dish here, the one called Gut Bomb.”
Then Jeanette orders: “Turkey-to-go; but I’ll eat it here. Give me the Que Viet egg rolls, too… um, also: cheese on a stick… a-a-and some fried pickles.”
Thirteen hours later, we are all still ordering. The waiter has been given his own tall glass and is sharing our vodka.
“More fried pickles… a turkey leg… I’ll also try this dish here that’s called ‘Big Fat Maple Bacon’: yes, I want one of those… and some roasted corn on the cob. Oh, I cannot wait!” sez Jeanette, whose turn has come again.
“I’ll take a tub of Sweet Martha’s pudding-cookies.” Anna points to the menu. Then she looks up: “And could you bring me an actual bathtub, with some sudzy bubbles in it? Before we arrived here, we had all been walking for over three miles.”
Now I stand and say “Put white bread in the tub with the cookies, so that they absorb the moisture.”
The waiter, despite his tipsiness, looks shocked.
“I’m just kidding,” I say.
Now God, still nursing his second kale smoothie, sez: “I’ll try the Johnny Cake.”
“French fries,” I shout.
“Walleye in a boat,” Jeanette raises her hand as if she’s just told the truth under oath.
“Fresh squeezed lemonade,” declares Monica.
Anna sez: “Cajun shrimp. Jamaican meat pies.”
God adds: “I’ll have some soul food.”
Now I say: “Fried ravioli with extra pepper and a side of horse barns.”
Jeanette smiles and tries not to laugh: “I’d like to acquire some addictions and then change my name to Michaela.”
“I can’t do THAT,” the waiter pleads in protest.
“You CAN and you WILL!” Jeanette mock-yells, slamming her fist on the tabletop and making our drinks wobble.
“Potatoes,” I say.
“Malt from the dairy building and a ziplock bag of Mary Mag’s fill-in-the-blank,” sez Fernando Pessoa.
§
On the morrow, we are still ordering (this is the most fun we’ve had yet — although we know that it’s probably more enjoyable for us, the orderers, than it is for you, the chefs who must make all this cuisine).
“Corn dogs and galactic bacon,” I shout, then tip back another tall glass of vodka.
“West Bloomington!” cries Monica Vitti.
“Home cooked food,” sez God, still nursing his kale shake.
“He’d like to avoid taking part in a potential imprudency right before lift-off,” Fernando Pessoa explains to the waiter, mock-shielding his mouth while jabbing his thumb in God’s direction.
“Gimme some donuts,” sez Anna Karina. “I want them served with milk from the mechanical goat-udder.”
“That’s an all-you-can-drink udder,” the waiter notes very gracefully (he’s apparently overjoyed that we’re all still ordering); “plus it’s lukewarm — are you sure you can handle it?”
“I suspend all thoughts of cautious living whenever I go to Paradise Diner,” Anna Karina speechifies.
Now, pointing with great concern at the menu, I enunciate fastidiously: “I’ll try the ‘Pork Chop on a Stick’.”
“Will that be all?” the waiter sez, poised with his pen and his mini-notepad and politely raising his eyebrows.
“Also,” I say, nodding sincerely while continuing to speak in my persnickety way, “give me everything else that smells and looks good.”
“Hot chicken sandwich,” sez Monica Vitti.
“Malts from the Vault,” shouts Anna. “ALL unknown quantities!”
“A giant egg roll, a poncho dog, a jumbo beef burrito with jalapeño, and just one super-fat French fry floating in vinegar,” sez Jeanette.
“I’ll order one Holy Land,” murmurs God.
“Shipwreck Fish Tacos,” sez Fernando; “and some hotdish on a stick.”
“Wild rice hamburgers,” I say. “Birch beer, with a little trough filled with unvaccinated and unmasked people. And, if possible, some firearms too.”
“That’s a bit too educational,” sez the waiter. “I’ll need to substitute the weapons for a Graeco-Roman apple dumpling; would that be OK?”
“Is this Graeco-Roman apple dumpling capable of kissing me to sleep, if I run afoul of the oligarchy?” I reply.
“Oui, Madame,” sez our waiter while curtseying.
“Then make the swap: it sounds delish,” I say. “Here’s a facsimile of my tax returns: At the bottom, you’ll find my signature — go ahead and forge it, for all future hangups,” I pass some documents to the waiter. He bows reverentially and, without even glancing to check if the info is accurate, tosses the paperwork to Jeanette, who stuffs it into her collared blouse.
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