Dear diary,
It all comes down to one gang against another. Why is poetry superior to rap? Because some gang said so. Why is the Bible more sacred than Emily Dickinson? Because some gang said so.
The gang of the English Department at some college. The gang of priests that compiled the Holy Scriptures. The gang that determines what shall be called Science. The gang that decides how many pieces of money can be born.
Maybe pain is the only way that God has of communicating with us – of saying: “No! Wrong way!” And what is the right way? Joining the divinity. When a lost fragment finds its way back into God’s being, it experiences a feeling of ecstasy.
Think how it feels to labor alone, compared to laboring with a friend.
Some people prefer solitude though.
And what can be said about gangs? They seem bad when you’re outside of them and good when you’re a member: so, be an insider. Maybe the problem is that members of gangs are arrested in their development: by definition, a gang must not include everyone. If a gang continued to expand until it contained all, it would be God.
So gangs are factions of divinity battling. God fragmented; then some of the fragments re-fused into collective organisms, which are at strife. Gangs are the civil war of God’s ongoing death. The peace that results from a realized harmony will be God’s resurrection: Finnegans Wake.
The government maltreats a subsection of its populace, and individuals within that subsection form an allegiance, thus mimicking the government that oppressed them. “Do as I say, not as I do,” says the government. Country X is fighting a war: that sounds noble; whereas gang warfare sounds ignoble. Small crime is abhorrent; big crime is exalted.
One must trust one’s society. One cannot fulfill all one’s necessities oneself. On my own, I would not know how to manufacture eyeglasses and rugged, lasting footwear. I could probably learn how to milk a cow, or plant potatoes. Maybe I could slay a bear, for clothing. And for a house, I would find a seashell that fits me.
I heard a scientist say that he kept an octopus in a tank, and every morning he gave it a chicken egg to eat. The octopus, he said, would turn red with love when it received the egg, and it would hasten into its favorite nook to dine. Then one morning the scientist tossed the octopus a rotten egg, to see how it would react. It turned red with love, as usual, and sped to its nook; but once it tasted the item, it turned white with fear and rage; then it threw the egg back at the scientist.
I myself am against this scientist, and I say that he should lose his license: his decision to give the octopus bad food was cruel. If he had offered the spoiled egg by mistake, not knowing its quality, then it would be permissible to record the results of the act in the Annals of Science. But because he chose deliberately to deceive the creature, his report should be destroyed; and, as I said, he should be disbarred. The scientist should also be injected with a substance that causes total paralysis; then he should be tossed into the sea and devoured by monsters.
Let me try writing a dystopian novel like Orwell’s 1984, just to end this entry:
Life in the Year 2060
Mister Winner was sitting at his desk, writing in his diary. “The month is October of 2060 AD,” he wrote. “The day is the anniversary of the great disaster. Thirty years ago, the world enjoyed a bout of nuclear tennis, and only one percent of the population survived. I am among them. I now work at a place that I hate. We have too many touchscreens, all of which spy on us.”
After the global devastation, the United States was renamed Heaven and converted into an interactive menu for the only remaining computer network. Mister Winner put his pen down and touched the screen at his right: “Heaven speaking,” said the screen’s speaker; “how can I help you?”
Mister Winner pressed the picture of the hotdog, and the voice said: “You have ordered one healthy snack to be delivered to your mansion.” There was more to the message, but Mister Winner pressed the Lot-49 button to mute it. Then he went back to work.
Mister Winner’s job was to create advertisement jingles for democracy and freedom. He also helped to update the list of “Good Citizens”: those whom he set to be purged would be cast into the outer darkness. Mister Winner was adept at installing cameras with hidden microphones; so, he did that, too, all over town, as an unpaid hobby. It made him happy to mar the well-being of others.
A white robed eunuch entered the work station where Mister Winner was laboring. He was carrying a hotdog on a white plate, which he set down on the desk before Mister Winner. “Here is your blessing, O saint,” said the eunuch, and he bowed repeatedly while pacing backward to exit.
“Thanks,” murmured Mister Winner, after the panel door slid shut. Then he took a bite, and as he chewed, he looked at the paper to the left of his dictionary: inscribed upon it was the start of a jingle about how awesome Christ is, and how perfect the leadership of Heaven seems overall. He wrote another couplet and then finished his hotdog.
After the kettlebell rang to announce the end of lunch, Mister Winner decided to take a stroll into the ghetto. There, he saw a pop shop – that is, a mom-&-pop shop devoid of its mom – and he entered and bought a knickknack and rented a room.
“Are you sure this room doesn’t have any surveillance screens installed?” asked Mister Winner of the pop who owned the shop. “Not even a spy camera-microphone combo behind that painting there?”
“Nope,” said the owner; “no espionage devices in this building. You can rent this room and have a love affair in it; I won’t betray you. I respect the privacy of my clients.”
Mister Winner paid the man for the room; then went back to his own place and wrote in his diary, reporting how he met a new girlfriend named Sophie:
Sophie is wise; we shared my newly rented room for several weeks, and admitted to each other how much we both hate Heaven and its Christ. Let us pray that these true attitudes remain secret; for if our traitorous views are ever discovered, Sophie and I will be dead meat.
Note to self: Ask Sophie, next time I see her, to accompany me to my boss’s house.
And the entry that came after the above one said:
Dear diary, it is now a few days later. I asked Sophie on a date, and we went to see my boss. My boss opened his door and exclaimed: “Mister Winner and Sophie, what a surprise! I had no idea that you would come and visit me at my home, because I have never listened in on your private conversations. (How would I do that, even if I desired to? For the room where you two have been meeting on the regular to commit your sins is not listed among the official spying chambers of the government.) Please enter my residence and make yourself at home. Lie down on my Confession Couch, and feel free to tell me anything: Don’t be afraid to unveil the darkest contents of your heart. You are safe here; remember: I am legally bound to respect the confidentiality of my underlings. Statute six hundred sixty-six says, and I quote: All bosses who moonlight as psychoanalysts must protect their employees’ records. So, go ahead and ask me about any underground rebel groups that you might wish to join.”
Hearing these kind words from the lips of my boss put Sophie and me at ease, so we sat down and sipped the martinis that his robo-butler prepared for us; and after the third one, Sophie and I both blurted out at once the question that was burning in our souls: “O boss, how might we join one of those underground rebel groups that are fighting to overthrow the government? Do such groups even exist, or are they just another rumor invented to lure us into self-incrimination.”
The man smiled warmly and answered: “You might have noticed that I was able to shut off the overhead spy-cam before answering you just now. You’ve never seen anyone exercise authority over the surveillance equipment before, have you? That’s because I’m the only one who has this privilege. I want my following words to be off the record, because I’m going to tell you something that is quite dastardly. I myself am, in fact, the leader of the only functional underground rebel group; so, if you want to overthrow the government, you came to the right place. But before you become a member of our counterforce, I must ask you to take a pledge. Are you willing to do that?”
Sophie and I both answered quickly: “Yes indeed!”
So my boss continued, “OK, then repeat after me: I hereby pledge that I will do anything that the underground rebel group commands, including hurting people’s feelings and damaging property.”
Sophie and I both dutifully repeated this pledge, word for word, with our hands upon our hearts.
“Very good,” said my boss, as he switched back on all the surveillance equipment, “now, go in peace, back to your love nest, and fight the power.” He raised his fist, while using his manilla folder to block this gesture from the eye of the overhead spy-cam.
We returned his salute, and left.
Back at our rented room above the pop shop (Mister Winner continued his diary entry), Sophie and I disrobed with the intention of engaging in acts of dalliance, but before we could begin, a voice boomed out of the painting on the wall:
“Hold that thought,” the voice announced; “I’ll be up the stairs in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, with the federal police. You two are in big trouble, and you’re both going to be sent to the select committee for questioning.”
I looked at Sophie and said: “Who just spoke? That wasn’t you, was it? It sounded like the man from whom I rented this room – the pop who owns the shop below. But I don’t see how he could have seen us or addressed us, for he assured me that there are no espionage devices in this room; no camera screens or hidden microphones on the walls – unless they’re behind that painting that I’ve never inspected.”
Sophie, shaking her head, replied: “No, that harsh voice that just upset the air was not mine. At first, I thought it was your own, and that you were making a jest. But apparently the man from whom you rent this room, the pop of the pop shop, has betrayed you. My guess is that he lied to you when he assured you that he would not spy on your activities or ever report your behavior to the cops. We should remove that suspicious painting from the wall and look behind it. I bet there’s a listening device, or maybe even a camera secretly installed there.”
I hopped up from the bed and took the frame off its hook. Sure enough, there was a surveillance module behind the painting: “Aha!” I cried.
But, just at that instant, the door of the room burst open, and the pop of the pop shop appeared sporting a sour face. “Yes, I spied on you,” he said; “and I squealed to the fuzz. Sorry about that – I did it for the money.”
Then a squad of policemen trampled into the room, while the chief officer stood at the door, opened his billfold, and took out several dollar bills, which he handed to the pop of the pop shop. “Here,” said the officer, “this is your reward for giving us information that led to the arrest of these heretics.”
The policemen who were now crowding the room separated Sophie from me. They wrapped us both in heavy chains, and said: “You two lovebirds are going to the clink for some Catholic Inquisition.”
As they manhandled us away from each other, Sophie cried out to me: “Goodbye, my soulmate.” And I echoed her words, as the cops shoved me into their squad car.
When we reached the station (Mister Winner’s diary entry continued), they shoved me into a cell with other men. I know not where they took Sophie. Then, one by one, each of my cellmates was called away by the prison guard:
“Mister Dough-face?” the guard said loudly, and Mister Dough-face stood up and answered, “Here am I.” Then the guard announced, “Come with me; you have an appointment in Room 101.” Mister Dough-face screamed in terror as the guard fetched him away.
Then the guard returned and shouted, “Mister Goodie?” Mister Goodie replied, “Present.” The guard snarled, “Come to Room 101,” and Mister Goodie was hauled away screaming.
This happened a few more times, and each time I grew more nervous about my own fate. Finally, the guard came and asked for Mister Winner. “Right here,” said I. The guard announced, “Your boss wants a word with you.” I was surprised that he did not mention “Room 101.”
So I followed the guard down the corridor, and he led me into a large green office where my boss was sitting at a desk. “Hi there, Mister Winner,” said my boss; “I need to hook you up to this shock machine, and then we’ll talk philosophy.”
“Sure thing,” I said, trying my best to remain agreeable.
“Before we begin,” said my boss, “do you have any questions for me?”
“Yes,” I said, “I was wondering if you were telling the truth, when you told me earlier that you are the leader of the underground group of rebels; because, if that is so, then you might be able to get me out of this predicament.”
My boss frowned and explained: “Ah, Mister Winner, you are very gullible. No, I am not the rebel leader. I just told you that to trick you into confessing your criminal intentions. That’s why you’re here now. You and your paramour Sophie tried to overthrow the government by falling in love with each other and cuddling. Such behavior is liable to ruin society, for if everyone were to spend all their time caressing one another, then none of the censorship and espionage would get done. The price of meat would go through the roof. People would forget the simple facts of mathematics.”
Now it was my turn to frown: I answered my boss, saying, “Love is good, not bad. And nobody will ever forget how numbers work – math is easy.”
My boss raised his eyebrows and said: “I’m going to shock you for that.” Then he pressed the red button on his remote control, and a bolt of lightning went through my system. It was extremely painful.
“Stop!” I shouted: “I give up! You win! No more electroshock therapy, please! I am cured – look, I will say or do anything you ask. Just quit recharging me.”
My boss placed his hand on his chin and thought for a while about my offer. Then he said: “Listen, neither the country of Heaven nor I really care what you say or do. We just want all the power in the world, forever. Thus, it deeply bugs us that you can think your own thoughts. So, the best way for me to ensure that you will no longer use your mind freely is to shock you at random, according to my whim, until your brain gets fried. Do you understand?”
But before I could even answer, he pressed the shock button like fifty-five more times, with the intensity knob at the maximum. I jittered around like a fish. Then he detached me from the machine and said: “Stand up.”
I tried to get to my feet, but I collapsed on the floor. My boss helped me up and said, “Here, I’ll hold you. Your brain might be sufficiently fried already. I just want you to look in the mirror at yourself, to see how unattractive you are.”
I gazed at the hideous form that was reflected in the mirror that he propped me in front of. “I can’t believe that’s me,” I said; “it must be a photorealistic painting, which you’re just claiming is a mirror. You lied to me once already; don’t think I’ll fall for your deceptions a second time.”
My boss then admitted that it was indeed a painting. Then he hooked me back up to the machine and shocked me again. Then he said: “Let’s return to the subject of math. How many fingers am I holding up?” And he held up both his hands with the first two fingers on each one making the sign for peace or victory.
“Four fingers,” I said; “two plus two equals—”
“No!” my boss shouted. “I hate to argue with you, but the official rulebook of Heaven states that two plus two is FIVE, not four. You should see two fingers on each of my hands: that equals five total.” Then he pressed the shock button, and I passed out.
When I revived, my boss was holding me like a mother holds her child and rocking back and forth, gently smoothing my back with his hand and whispering: “It’s alright, my little baby, I just needed to reprogram you.”
I shook myself loose and said: “Are you truly my mom?”
He blinked and a smile started to form on the sides of his mouth. “I AM,” he said, with tears in his eyes; “do you remember me? You stole a piece of chocolate from your little sister once, before the Chaos Dragon kidnapped and ate us.”
I nodded and replied sincerely: “It’s all coming back to me now, mommy.”
My boss then held up his hands in the peace-and-victory pose and said: “What’s two plus two? Quick, don’t think too hard, just answer the first number that comes to your mind.”
I squinted and pointed at his fingers, counting under my breath; then I shouted my answer: “Five!”
My boss sprang forth and hugged me tightly, with tears streaming from his eyes. “O Mister Winner, my son, my son, Mister Winner, my son,” he cried. Then I asked: “Can I go now?” And he said: “In a moment. First, you must suffer the final ordeal.”
“And what’s that?” I said.
“Room 101,” said my boss. And before I could ask my next question, he added in answer: “Room 101 is the worst possible experience imaginable. You must endure it. For there is yet one thing lacking of your perfection.”
Then he dragged me kicking and screaming to Room 101.
“What’s that?” I said, pointing to the strange contraption on the floor of the otherwise empty room.
“That, dear child,” explained my boss, “is the paradisal snake pit. Here’s how it works: I place you inside it, then I lock its gate.”
I gasped and exclaimed: “But there’s nothing in the whole wide world that I fear more than serpents.”
“Yes, I know,” said my boss, “that’s why I selected it as your last challenge. You see, Heaven is not interested in killing you; it only desires to earn your love. But the love must be sincere, from your heart, not just lip-service; and it must be given freely. But right now, your love for Sophie is preventing you from finding Heaven attractive, so we must use this snake pit to win you over.” Then he grabbed me by the neck and thrust me into that paradise, and he barred the gate so that I could not escape.
I began to scream, and I shouted: “What must I do to be saved?”
“You must renounce your love of Sophie,” said my boss.
“Fine,” I sobbed, “I do declare that I now hate Sophie, and I only love Heaven instead. And I respect my boss, who is so kind and generous.”
My boss tapped his finger on his lips and thought about this outburst for a while, then he replied: “I’m not really buying that you’re sincere. Could you tell me a little more about your conversion, and give it some feeling?”
So, while sniffling and weeping, as a snake slowly crept in my direction from the other side of the garden, I said to my boss: “I am so over my infatuation for Sophie that I wish you would remove her physically from my heart, take her out of my ribcage, and plant her in this place instead of me. And I love Heaven now, a lot. And my boss does good work. May the blood of Christ wash us all light-pink.” Then I recited the pledge of allegiance while stiffly performing the official salute with my arm.
This act apparently persuaded my boss, at last. He came over and unblocked the gate of paradise and released me to freedom. But when the serpent tried to come out as well, my boss quickly shut the gate and secured it.
§
Well (Mister Winner concluded his diary entry), I can’t think of anything else to tell you now. That’s pretty much how my day went. I better get to sleep, because tomorrow morning I plan on visiting the bistro across the street, and they open at six. Bye for now.
Then Mister Winner went to bed. And when the sun rose the next day, he crossed the street, entered the Calvary Café, and ordered a sponge of vinegar on hyssop. As he sat there sucking, the shop’s door opened and Sophie happened to appear: the two former lovers spied each other and waved. “Come, join me,” said Mister Winner.
When Sophie sat down, she looked dejected. “What’s wrong?” said Mister Winner.
“I am ashamed at how quickly I broke, under the interrogation process,” Sophie said. “Immediately I renounced your love, and told them that I only desired the LORD – the garden’s proprietor. Then I gladly accepted all the creatures that he offered to me as helpmeets: I let the LORD beguile me with his minions. Then I bowed to him, begging him to release me and to put you in my stead.”
“I did the same thing to you, during my own temptation,” Mister Winner admitted.
The ex-lovers sat in silent contemplation. Then Sophie got up and said: “I really must be going. I have a date with the Christ of Heaven. He’s my new master.”
“Do you truly love Christ?” I said, astonished at this news.
“Yes, I think so,” Sophie tried to smile.
“Jeesh, I can tell that you really mean it,” said Mister Winner.
“Oh, I do, I do,” said Sophie, shrugging. Then she asked: “And how about you? Are you seeing anyone?”
“Me?” said Mister Winner. “No, not really. I guess you could say I’m married to my job. For I love Heaven, and my boss, and censorship; but that’s pretty much all. I found out my boss is actually my mom.”
Sophie tilted her head in wonder. “How does that work?” she asked.
“How does what work?”
“Your boss – he’s a man. How can he be your mom?”
“Oh,” sighed Mister Winner, “it’s simple, really. They fried my brain with electroshock therapy, and during the process, my boss revised my childhood memories. Now, instead of myself with pop and mom, our family trio has become Son, Father, and Ghost. That latter role of surrogate mother is fulfilled by my boss: I’m told that he birthed me from his ribcage.”
“Ah,” Sophie nodded, “that’s the same thing they did to me, with Christ.”
Mister Winner stood up and extended his arm. “Well, it was good knowing you,” he said, as they shook hands.
“I can’t believe how many times we went to bed together,” she said, “and now we’re practically strangers.”
“Yes, the world is a cold place,” Mister Winner forced a laugh.
When Sophie had gone, Mister Winner turned to watch the screen on the wall. An announcement was made that his favorite sports team just won the championship. Mister Winner turned to the owner of the bistro and said: “Did I hear that right? Heaven won against Hell?”
“That’s right,” said the owner. “We also won the war that was being fought. They announced that earlier, when you were chatting with your girlfriend over there.”
“Wait, we won the war, too? But I thought it was supposed to last forever? How’d they do that?”
The owner made a motion with his arms like he was firing a massive cannon mounted to a swiveling turret, and he said: “You know that two-handed engine they keep behind the entry gate up there? That’s what they used. It did the trick. Totally annihilated all evil.” Then he added as an afterthought: “It makes you wonder why they didn’t just do that in the first place.”
Mister Winner grinned in a slightly unhinged fashion and gazed at nothing in particular, as he remarked to the bistro’s owner: “This is unbelievable. Last evening, for the first time in my life, I prayed to God. I said: Please, if you want my love for real, just bless my favorite team in the game tomorrow. And look: not only did he do that, but he actually caused our country to win the Forever War! What luck! I swear, I love his Christ now, too!”
Mister Winner then pulled a form from the Police Tips dispenser, and scrawled under the section labeled Informant’s Testimony: “I LOVE YOU, SOULMATE.” And after filing this document with the authorities, he went back to living his life as usual.
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