Would you rather have a window or a painting on your wall? I have a bad memory, but I think I recall John Ruskin answering that he would choose a window. He lived in an age (again, I believe that I’m right about this) that had not seen the likes of Abstract Art, Futurism, Fauvism, Pop Art, etc. So I presume that the question meant something different to him than it does to me. And then there’s you, O reader, who live in an age that makes my own age look like prehistoric times: I imagine that you would neither hang a painting nor install a window on your wall but rather position an interactive gateway to the end of the mind, framed in natural oakwood. Nonetheless, you, too, would appreciate a window, because you like to watch the birds.
But does your age even have any birds? I thought that they all went extinct. The only wildlife left, in your time, are skinny leopards with seven heads, and robots with bat wings (that cannot fly), and a snake with a bearded human face. All this, against a background of red wallpaper with drooping flowers of gray. And you folks don’t even have walls, because your houses are transparent. And sentient swords float around jabbing everything.
But, if you hadn’t killed all the trees, would it be preferable to look at an actual willow swaying in the breeze, or an artist’s depiction of the same?
Note how I can simply write that phrase “the same” and you’re compelled to imagine the identical scene – this would never happen in reality. Plus I’m speaking as if the only difference between the choices is reality’s potential of movement; whereas, if that were the case, then you could solve the problem by nailing to your wall a plasma flatscreen that displays motion pictures. For the only detectable difference between an actual willow swaying in the breeze and a cinematic recording thereof is that the movie version will feature a . . . No: come to think of it, the two are the same.
To behold what is real, or to imagine your will: that is the question. I always claim that I prefer dreams to reality, but then when my fancy presents me with a gorgeous starlet who works in a nightclub, my first thought is: “Would that she were real!” And I rarely catch myself exclaiming about trees that look pleasant: “If only I were daydreaming this sight!”
Do I value my imaginations highly because they are private, or would I be thankful if a genie offered to make all my dreams come true? I think I would side with the latter idea, but then when I start to flesh out what that might entail, I begin to fear that the untamed aspects of my inner world, which are often what makes them so attractive when they appear within my mind, could pose problems if allowed to infest external spacetime.
And this “fleshing out” that gives me pause is itself an act of the fancy.
Yet, on the other hand, I’m assuming that, once my mental figments are dragged into the real world, they might go haywire. However, if this occurred, then the figments would no longer be my own but rather the world’s. Or, to put it a different way: any haywire-ness that manifested would be in accord with my desire, if the dream-come-true remained Bryan Ray’s intellectual property; therefore I need not feel scared, because my will is in control.
“My will is in control.” That notion itself scares the pants off me. I don’t trust my will. My will has a will of its own. To call it “mine” is a lazy habit of speech – it only seems to be MY will because it is bound to my body. But these are two distinct concepts: being bound to a body, and being controlled by a body. A rhinoceros can be bound to a human infant.
My own imaginations seem easier for me to control than most aspects of our shared reality. That feels like a fairly safe statement to make; nevertheless, I still doubt its accuracy. For I can use my hand to lift a runcible spoon from this table. See?—I just did it. But the same spoon, when placed on the same table in my mind, cannot be budged. It’s like it’s welded to the surface. On the other hand, often I encounter in the real world what appear to be insurmountable obstacles, which, after I give a slight try, are very easily overcome. For instance, one year, I expected that our family’s Christmas dinner would be a nightmare, but it turned out pleasant, and the meal was delicious. The only problem was that I could not lift my spoon. But this was solved when my earthly father rose from the grave and humbly served me bread and wine.
Video games are a world between worlds. They are not windows or paintings, but they share aspects of both; plus, they’re both like and unlike motion pictures. They resemble dreams that are controllable by remote, and yet they remain suffused with the obstinateness of reality – that awful “Amen” characteristic.
Compared to one’s thoughts, video games are brighter, more vivid. Video games are dazzling and puzzling. Nobody knows where they came from. Video games are wise. They can make it rain indoors, and hamburgers open their eyes and walk around. How would you like to train for the army? Learn to be a sniper or to steal pelicans. Video games are the wise thoughts of God coming forward and commingling with the thoughts of us sinful players: God uses video games to instruct each soul how to speed down the tube of righteousness; and he uses his favorite avatar, Christ, to help us overcome the most difficult enemy, Death, which appears at the end of each level. All games combine to form a giant pyramid, with the toughest illusions at the top. The goal is to escape from the cycle of life, and to lodge your character in the huge comfy couch whose sign reads “Nirvana.” Once you use up all your lives in this way, your reward is that you are given an infinite amount of literal flesh-and-blood virgins from the afterlife: They emerge out of the screen, one after the next, in a single file line that never stops; and, as soon as each one is close enough, the two of you enter into matrimony. Meanwhile, at a measured pace, the virgins continue stepping forth and marrying you and marrying you – each new virgin is as welcome as the one from the previous ceremony to become your bride. Thus, you rack up a hi-score that breaks the all-time record for heavenly bliss, and all the saints hover out and proclaim that you are the holiest, and billions of yogis also stand by and gawk. They can’t believe your awesome fortune. You are the favored one. The big winner.
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