Dear diary,
Now it is neither day nor night but a checkered combination of both. And the earth suddenly vanishes from sight: tho everything on the planet remains, in motion or at rest, exactly as it had been, the ground itself becomes invisible — it’s like the landlubber’s version of one of those boats that has a clear glass bottom that allows you to see the ocean beneath — so now we’re all left inhabiting a transparent globe.
At this point, I invent a new sport. …But, before getting too far into the weeds, I suppose I’d better introduce myself — it would be awkward to remain strangers, after all, since you and I are going to be spending the next few weeks together, thinking the same thoughts:
My name is Lord Bryan. My training was in the technicalities of novel reading; but I landed in this position of essay writing, by a fluke. I also often attempt to follow people around by way of a technique that combines intense daydreaming with focused meditation; but I never yet managed to actually catch anyone doing anything enticing, which is always my hope; nor has any subject ever interacted with me in any way.
This new sport that I created is fraught with difficulties. Suppose, for instance, that you wish to hail a taxi: In storybooks, you simply leap at the cab that is speeding past, and either it hits you and you die (tho only within the book, so it’s different than real death, which is even sillier) OR you crash thru the side windshield and land in the back seat. Sometimes the window is even rolled down. — OK, so the modern equivalent of a trillion British sovereigns is the caesar coin: This is the reward that is waiting for the winner of my new sport. What should I name my sport, by the way? Hmm… I guess I’ll tentatively refer to it as Bryanball.
Alright, so let’s say that your friend Josh foresees that he likely shall not get a second chance on this stretch of neither-day-nor-night to leap bodily into a taxi. Therefore he begins to run. I pay the referee of a nearby softball tournament to instruct her pitchers to continue lobbing balls very gently from their own field out into our landscape, while Josh is airborne. (Recall that I made the earth go away, in the beginning — that was my first act… or rather my Logos’ first act, or first word-deed or whatever.) What happens in actual fact to this young man Josh who just ran persistently through the London streets and got hit by the taxi cab but remains on its hood while it swerves to avoid the fusillade of what it takes to be softball-sized hailstones that keep bouncing thru the main road, is that his spirit ascends to Heaven Number 3 and crouches there in hope of reinforcing the illusion that his soma (Josh’s body, back on Clear Earth, now known as Nothingland) was merely running from an adjacent ballgame’s pitches, all of which kept cascading astray, because gravity happened to choose this cleft of time to begin to go in and out of a black hole. But in these obscure aristocratic byways he cannot but feel that an officious flock of policewomen might encircle him and offer a contradictory explanation. And that’s exactly what always happens, in the game of Bryanball.
At this juncture, Josh’s thoughts about taxis order a hotdog. With its flag erect, the U.S. Empire turns the corner of the street ahead and tries to become Josh’s soul’s true tail, so that it can wag him. Josh holds his breath…
Would you order the same fate for yourself: Yes or no? — Just write your answer in the margin.
Now I, Lord Bryan the creator of Bryanball, draw a sigh of relief as I read what you inscribed on the page that we’ve both just speedread with care. Your answer passes unchallenged.
The sport’s field (or “game board”, for those who must think of everything as a board game) is a zigzag one designed to bring all players as quickly as possible to Oxford Street. This is where I, Lord Bryan of Bryanball, currently practice British law. Thus, at length, every game piece, proceeding in a north-northwesterly direction, funnels directly into the auto-sliding glass French double doors of my firm’s brick building; whose interior is, of course, blackened with soot. All former players, including Josh’s soul trapped in Third Heaven, slightly increase in fallibility. Little by little my robo-butler gains upon them: for this is another part of the sport — a quarter-size robotic replica of Tertius R. Devlin from the movie Notorious (1946) chases after the players, while I, Lord Bryan, watch. On the crowded pavement there is little chance of my attracting their notice, and everyone is as anxious as possible to catch a taxi cab or two; nevertheless I end up making conversation with almost every soul that flies by. For I enjoy talking to strangers. I speak in a low voice that is extremely subtle, which ends up attracting people’s attention. In this, my opponent’s divine plan is completely foiled; for he booms pompously and the din of the traffic drowns all his voices out.
Miscellaneous Extra Fax About Bryanball
One of the best things that you can do is win the game. To do this, most sports require you to kick your opponent’s ass. But the rules of Bryanball clearly state that if you find a loving companion to walk by your side, and you pace yourselves, then you shall gain the whole earth (and the bounty thereof). And finding more than one companion is encouraged. You’ll note that, in the above example — see the first section of this essay — our boy Josh started in pursuit of a companion at once, and was in time to see her turn the corner of the street, but the ball bounced before him, distracting him from his mission, and he needed to hail a taxi, which was the end of him; tho his soul gained a heavenly home. Once he had moved in to his level-three apartment in the sky, his prayer’s vigorous strides soon enabled his resurrected body to gain upon the ball, and by the time he, in his turn, reached the corner where his would-be companion Jezebel first caught his earthly eye, the distance between them was sensibly lessened. So, it’s not an absolute certainty that Josh lost. It’s never certain: this game has no losers. The only sure thing is when one wins: no one can take that away from you: it’s true love, which never ends. The question is: How long will it take Josh to grasp such a result? The small Mayfair streets were comparatively deserted, when he chose to give up the ghost; and he judged it wise to content himself with keeping the ball in sight.
Now, as for stocks and bonds, yes, they are still just as valuable in the sport of Bryanball as they are in the false lying World; so please stop asking me about them. If you own them, you can keep your cake while eating it. I beg you to bug off.
And every Friday, a place called Tube Station appears while you cross the road — this happens to all players, no matter where you live, at five a.m., in the midst of a street crossing. Tube Station is exactly what it purports to be: a station where one gets to ride inside of a tube. You can go anywhere you like, and then the tube will drop you back off at your home residence. If you don’t have a home residence, the tube will provide one for you, free of charge. Each tube is shaped like a capsule, so you get to feel like medicine in a pill being swallowed by a giant green horse. And, as the earth is unperceivable, while you follow faithfully on the heels of your love interest or ball, if you’re not yet in soul-form, you enter in between the two Big Lions. Thus, you’ve penetrated paradise. The Lions are supposed to guard the path to the tree of life, but you get to go in there, because you’re using the tube. There’s no omnidirectionally thrusting fire-sword, because I stole it. (I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.) And, boy, does it glitter!
One of the lions is nicknamed Leo, the famous Tolstoyan, and the other is actually not a lion but a Burning Tyger whose pet name is Bryan Ray. This is not the same Bryan Ray as LORD Bryan; for the latter created and positioned the former decoratively — either that, or the other way around.) Once you eat the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of everything, your eyes unclose and you see all the other eleven trees; for there are twelve total, and they have all sorts of fruits for you to consume. Then you go up to the first floor, and sit at a small table in the window. It is late, and the diner’s crowd is thinning out. This is neither good nor bad, for you enjoy company, but you also savor your solitude.
Let’s say that you take a seat at the booth next to me, sitting directly behind my comrades Betty and Midge, who are acting the roles of Vanessa and Tara in this new screenplay, and you recognize us from our earlier books. And, on the opposite side, you have a full view of a second man whom you study attentively. He is fair, with a weak, unpleasant face; and you put him down as being either a seraph or an angel. He is probably about fifty years of age, his shoulders cringe a little as he talks, and his eyes, small and crafty, shift unceasingly. This is God, circa the Common-Era Year 2020.
We invite you over to our table. You sit next to us in our booth. We all dine heartily. Josh’s risen body joins us and contents itself with ordering a Welsh rarebit and a cup of coffee. God orders a substantial bib for himself and his companion, who is either nonexistent or unseeable. Then, as our waiter paces away to program the robotic chef that was made in the image of the great writer Boccaccio and whom they christened Roboccaccio, you slide forward on the booth, to get closer to the table, because I, Lord Bryan, begin to talk earnestly in my celebrated “low voice”. The entire establishment hushes; all ears turn me-ward. But, listen as they would, not a single one can catch more than a phrase here and there; because the gist of what I say seems to be some strange directions, orders, or instructions about a game or sport which I, the left lion of paradise who is the burning tyger LORD BRYAN, am impressing upon YOU, my new companion who helps me win back my own rightful fortune. Yes, you and I fall in love. This is when God begins to refer to us as his adversaries.
Other Stuff that Happened, Not Worth Mentioning
God now begins a speech. “Ah, but you haven’t met my companion, the Holy Ghost. He or she is a marvel.” He lifts the bib. “An archbishop would swear they were his own parents. It gets the voice right every time, and that’s really the principal thing.”
We all laugh, but God seems to remonstrate with us — it’s hard to tell what exactly he’s aiming at, because we’re laughing too hard to care. “Are you not my friends?” he cries. “And is my name not the most respectable possible — there’s not a common aspect about it! Did I not choose it for that reason? Why do you insist upon committing the unpardonable sin against my Holy Ghost!?” He drops the corner of his lifted bib so that it falls and re-drapes him/her/it.
There is a steely ring in your voice, as you reply: “Look, I am the reader; and I am simply trying to have a pleasant dinner with the author of the story that contains us all, including you, dear God. Now, I prithee, consider the situation as it stands: Our author has fallen in love with ME, and Lord Bryan has chosen MYSELF to be his companion in this new sport that he has invented, which he rather unfortunately titled Bryanball. Now you think that you can come flashing your Holy Ghost at us like it’s the rumored Third Sex, and we’ll just clutch our paps in awe and offer ourselves to be indwelt? Dear sir, many weird things have been dreamt up since Lord Bryan started prophesying; and you have much more competition nowadays. Besides, regarding this Ghost of yours: How do you know that I have not met him or her already?”
“Bah!” retorts God. “That is children’s talk — a fable for the policewomen. Do you know what I say to myself sometimes? I suspect that your Lord Bryan here is a myth invented by my belly-button: a bogy to frighten us Elohim to give up our evil.”
“It might be so,” I smile.
“And it might not!!" God smashes his fist down on the table, causing the silverware to rattle.
“I wonder,” sez Vanessa, “if it’s indeed possible that Lord Bryan is with us and amongst us, unknown to all but a Happy Few? If so, he guards his secret deftly. And the idea is a good one, yes. We never know. We look at each other — one of us is UNE FEMME, too — but which!? It’s maddening to keep track of who’s playing what character on this particular night. Isn’t it enough that we all step onstage and say lines, some of which are made up on the spot? I kinda like the stuff that’s impromptu better than the script. Is that a sin? Who among us has the authority to cast the first critical essay against our production, to pan our performance? Lord Bryan commands the present showing — but also he serves. He is at the mercy of our beloved reader here, who is more powerful than the GOD OF GODS. Lo, she is among us — in the midst of us. And you, sir, who call yourself the Ruler of this World, are trying to win us over with consolation prizes, while Bryan is at least offering the reader his hand in marriage — and this will be a celestial wedlock, first invented by our friend Joseph Smith, thus the blissful bond lasts for eternity…”
With an effort, God shakes off the vagary of his fancy. He looks at his watch.
“Yes,” sez the Holy Ghost from beneath the bib of God. “We might as well go.”
[To be continued...]
God calls the waitress and asks for his bill. The Holy Ghost leaps out from beneath the bib as a fully formed divinity and mimics his man-mom. (Which is to say: after seeing God request the bill for his part of the meal, the Holy Ghost does likewise; because, on instinct, all baby birds ape their grand-parrots.) The reason I have decided to let God and his Ghost become two distinct entities at this point in the story is that eventually I’d like to have God turn into a wolf and either chase or be chased by his own Holy Ghost, and then I plan on having them end up in a bubble bath together. [Sorry — before revealing my intentions just now, I should have probably said: “SPOILER ALERT”, as a fair warning to those who like to be surprised by strange twists in the plotline.] A few moments later, everyone else at the table is following these two men down the stairs.
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