[Cont.]
Welp, that’s my book. It’s pretty much over now — all but the crying, that is. It wasn’t really an airport novel after all; it lacked all the stuff that you’d expect from those types of publications. But it DOES fit in a car trunk, so…
Neither is it a novel nor not a novel, so it was wrong of my characters to disclaim whatever they said that made you think along those lines.
I wish I had added more busses to the roads — I like the idea of busses, because they’re big and have multiple seats, plus there’s usually a driver; and some of them are coin-operated.
Should I have said more about the meaning of life? I don’t think so; I think I said enough about that.
I’m happy with the love scenes. I like those the best. I sorta regret not just making a pornographic film. But, on second thought, then I’d need to write a script, get proper lighting, hire camerawomen, and learn how to direct actors, etc…
Yeah, this thing was nice. I highly recommend writing a novel yourself. It’s no different than filling up the compartments of an ice-cube tray with regular tap-water. Except, instead of water, you use pure poetry, which is easy to get: you just dream shit up.
Of course there were drawbacks, failures, mistakes, botched passages, etc. The whole thing turned out wrong, in fact. But that’s OK. I’m glad that I included some of the people, places and things that I was able to fit into this project. I do rue the fact that I neglected mentioning certain heroes, tho — for instance, I wish I had thought to include a series of episodes where I perform a bunch of antics with Samuel Beckett. Plus, when I was in Portugal, I should have made a pilgrimage to José Saramago and bowed and wept. And there are a lot of wise and distinguished women that I failed to…
And, honestly, I wish that I could advise all readers to embrace ONLY MY BOOX and ignore all the others, except the ones that fellow pataphysicians like Harold Bloom love. For if the Dark Tower isn’t packed with the blackest knights, then who’d wanna infiltrate it?
As for the outside world (so-called reality) becoming much harsher and crueller while I was recording these adventures, I did not like that. I was against it, as it was happening. And it pains me that I cannot stop what I am against — which is a large reason why I write. Sometimes all one can do is mirror what is bad, in hopes that others behold the reflection and say “Let us avoid performing that way, henceforward”; and sometimes one offers fanciful yearnings, in hopes that those whose tendency is to imitate will grant one’s wish by aping desirable behavior. I don’t mind if I myself am left with Pisgah while those who survive me acquire the Good Life — I just want it to happen. In the meantime, I’ll keep trying different moves to spark it up.
Now what about those people who do not like me? I mean: those who do not like my writings. (I AM only my writings.) I wish that they would give me more of a chance. Yes, let me address those who have read me and judged my works as dissatisfying, as well as those who are not currently reading me and those who refuse ever to read me:
You people who don’t like my style should learn that I’m WAY WAY WAY out ahead of you, and you really missed the ball. You missed the bus as well as your scheduled departure in a cruise-ship. You missed my whole airplane novel! What are you looking for, sheer stupidity? I tried to make my works incredibly low and base and dull, just to attract you; and yet you continue to ignore the meal laid out on the trap, and you don’t bite the bait? Seriously, what is wrong with you? You probably admire all the movies and TV shows that I hate. You probably like awful music: the kind that shrivels the spirit. However, still, I’d rather that you and I could find some common ground — I want to enchant you, and bring you into my fold. How can I get at you? Where ARE you? Please just nibble on the cuisine that I have displayed here, and become intoxicated. If you don’t feel blissful after eating, then simply pretend that it was exquisite. Is that so difficult? Look: an author WANTS YOU for his readership, and you are rejecting him: What’s the problem? Do I not pay fairly? That can’t be the case: I assume that my rates are excellent — lo, for every few words, you get a shock, a giggle, occasionally a snicker or bedazzlement… I tie a choinix of wow to every outdated term I use. So I’m not buying the argument that there’s no reward in being a fanatic of my scriptures, O gentle reader. Just GIVE IN. Rather than saying “No” to my offerings, say “Yes!” — It’s really that simple.
What could cause people to want to waste their morning staring at news reports from online websites? I mention this because it is the activity that I’ve been told is what most people are doing instead of reading my texts aloud.
Find some loved ones. Ask them to take a seat opposite from you at your dining table. Tell them that you’ve been thinking seriously for a great while about their disinclination to proselytize on behalf of the writings of Bryan Ray. If they respond, “But we don’t like the way that Bryan Ray composes,” then ask them: “Have you even tried to give your whole heart to Bryan Ray’s books? It seems to me that you’re scared that you might fall in love with him.” Then just push yourself away from the table, causing the legs of your chair to screech against the floorboards in the process, and wave your hand dismissively as you walk away. I’m seriously telling you to give up on your loved ones: there is no hope for them; they will never convert. Look at them (now I’m telling you to peek back around the corner and gaze into the room that you just left, to note one last sight of your wrongheaded group of family and friends who cannot discern my literary genius) — they are a sad pack of losers.
No, I’m only kidding about this vengeful, arrogant attitude that I hope you evince as my apostle. The truth is that I wish we could all get along.
But it’s hard to put so much time and effort into a written composition and then have people ignore it. These moderns don’t even feel the need to give a plausible excuse why they’re neglecting my assorted masterpieces: They just shrug and say “I don’t enjoy that type of prophecy.” — How can they sleep at night! How can they look at themselves on the security monitor, while they’re engaged in a full night of unbroken beauty-rest!?
We authors ARE pigheaded, tho; I admit it. We’re far more conceited than that ass whom I mentioned above. For nobody asked me to etch what I have inscribed; that’s one of the reasons I did it: If someone had requested or demanded that I compose a holy scripture, I would have abstained from writing entirely, as did Jesus of Nazareth.
One big question, however, is: What’s worse, to suffer mentally OR physically? I myself say that physical suffering is worse, but that’s because my mind is invincible — I eat mental pain for breakfast. But people who are weak-minded might prefer that someone tussle with them in a boxing ring, throwing meaty punches and whatnot, rather than participate in a tendentiously one-way conversation.
And when you’re born, the first thing that Doctor Bryan does is cut the cord that binds you to mommy. Now you’re doomed, therefore you scream. — Most people don’t get past this stage of life: the screaming on account of being doomed. But let’s look further, for the sake of possibly winning over those multitudes who refuse to read us. Let’s think of the other things that need to be done, after cutting the infant soul’s mom-line connection.
The first thing that a fresh life needs is a way to find food. Most animals either graze or forage. So a baby must grow teeth and learn to dig up plant roots. Note that modern city life does not allow any human, however young, to possess enough farmland to be self-sustaining with regard to nutriment. Not even newborn babes can grow potatoes. That’s why the breast was invented. This way, even tho the direct line of nutrimental communication between the mother and her infant has been disrupted by the sinister Doctor Bryan, still, the woman who gave birth to you, our dear gentle reader, can give you potatoes in mashed form, by way of her body. A white, potato-based paste takes either of two six-lane highways to a pair of exit gates. At a certain point, the on-ramp that is the babe’s muzzle merges with one of these dispensaries — this is proof that God manufactured lips to fit nipples.
My point is that if you’re born in the city, you can’t grow your own food. Therefore you need to become a slave of someone who owns a supermarket.
Also, you are allowed to go about naked in the world; but, in cold weather, you might need to wear the pelt of a lion. Yet it is hard for unarmed children to slay jungle beasts. That’s why I recommend Leo Tolstoy as a life-guide.
Now, once you’ve gotten yourself born into a book, believe me, shelter is totally optional. There’s rarely weather bad enough to bruise your arrogance in a text that’s composed by a professional. As our friend Tolstoy sez, Shakespeare really took a bad turn with King Lear: He chose to give Lear inclement weather during his key scene, and that ruined the production. People walked out of the theater wishing they’d worn their raincoats. (Who’d have thot that bringing an umbrella to an Indoor Globe would be so prudent!)
But the escape valve is death. We can always die — no authority has figured out a way to steal that from us yet. The main snag — and full teams of alien engineers are presently engaged in finessing such oversights, one can only hope — I say, the main snag is that the lever of death is tricky to activate: it’s rather stiff, it feels almost jammed. Maybe it needs to be anointed with some sort of lubricant.
So, to review: Fucking is bad; because people fuck and you get born. Once you’re born, you’re not even done being fuckt, because there’s no way to acquire food and shelter. This is due to humankind being ingenious.
Let me just add, as long as we’re here, that it’s not ALL of humankind that is to blame for the developments of modernity. It’s only a few evil apples.
But the sun will die too, and that’s a boon. The only sad thing is that we won’t be around to see it. (Or will we?) And you can always pretend to have shot down the sun with a projectile, causing it to drop clean out of the sky, within your storybook; because nobody who would want to stop you is reading anyway. Only the happy few are here with us, any given instant. The resentful mob is always elsewhere. And it’s additionally fortunate that the human brain cannot see far beyond the present artwork; so, whatever one sez goes, in the land of make-believe. That’s why the most ambitious among us take up lie-telling. But I suggest doing it in a way that helps rather than harms everything. Is that too forceful of a nudge — did I break your heart, God?
* * *
CODA
Bryan Ray’s novels are all alike: they have a quite vulgar tone; and this latest is no exception to that rule. Its chapters lead us on to a foolish interest in the fortunes of the boy and girl they describe: both are nothing more than names on pages; the boy is the ego of the novelist himself; and the girl is a series of actresses taken from old motion pictures that nobody watches. The tale’s protagonist, Bryan the Author, who often inexplicably changes professions, in the course of the plot, is raised from a humble to a high position. He is in want of a wife and a castle, and the object of the story is to supply him with both. As the so-called Airplane Novel advances, we watch incredulously, step by step, Bryan’s ascension toward success, until, at last, his goals are gained: the wedding day is fixed, and we follow the gala procession home to the castle. At this point, the doors are slammed in our face; and the poor reader is left outside in the cold, not enriched by so much as an idea, or a virtuous impulse.
Ralph Waldo Emerson’s rating of this book = 3½ out of 5 stars.
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