The New Death and others (13 page)

"He could make anything. But then He could
also move anything, so-" replied the man.

"What is the truth value of the statement
'this statement is false'?" shouted another robot.

"False. No, true," the man said. "No,
wait..." he trailed into silence.

The robots laughed, and high-fived each
other.

(back to contents)

++++

The New
God

Once upon a time an old man arrived in a
certain city in the Roman Empire. He brought with him a statue,
which he claimed to have found in the forests of Armorica, beyond
the empire. He also claimed to be a priest.

The people of the city loved to hear of new
gods, and the idol resembled no deity known to Greece or Rome, nor
Egypt, nor even Persia or Judea. A huge crowd came to the new
temple to hear him preach.

"I have not come to ask you to worship a
god," he said. "I have come to tell you that you may all become
gods."

He went on to say that the temple would host
a year-long festival, wherein all could come to display their
talent in singing and dancing. Those who lacked skill would be
ridiculed and sent away. Those who were skillful would be allowed
to return. At last, he said, the statue (speaking through him)
would choose the most skillful of all. This one he would sacrifice,
and they would ascend to the heavens and become a god. For an
entire year they would be worshiped, until the next sacrifice.

"And what happens after the second sacrifice?
Are there now two gods to be worshiped, and three the next year,
and so on?" asked a merchant.

"Indeed not. Only one will be worshiped at a
time. The others will be utterly abandoned, and no doubt will be
forgotten."

"Who would be wretched enough to give up
their only life for a year of fame?" the merchant said with
scorn.

But the merchant was wrong. So many came that
the temple had to add extra services. As the priest had said, those
who lacked skill were ridiculed, and those who were skillful were
allowed to return. After a year a Gaulish freedman named Quintus
was killed, and declared a god, and given praise and worship. The
next week there were even more entrants. Though most were
humiliated, and the only reward was to die and be forgotten, they
still dreamed of being chosen by the Armorican idol.

(back to contents)

++++

That Which Unites Us

I have sought in vain to reconcile

all gospels into one.

I have talked of peace to many

and heard words of peace from none.

Yet one universal factor

still unites humanity:

every person on the Earth

is having better sex than me.

Every one, without exception

from the Arctic to Australia

each time I turn my back

it's an unending bacchanalia.

The writer at her desk

the hooting fratboy in his dorm

smelly hoboes in their camp

who mainly do it to keep warm.

They go slowly at McDonalds

or with vigor at the gym.

Dying lepers in the hospice

intertwine their rotting limbs.

Those who sit at home alone

and watch aerobics on TV

when they play with their controls

they're having better sex than me.

Once I tried to ask the experts

what my poor performance means.

Richard Dawkins was too busy

making copies of his genes.

Stephen Hawking wasn't talking

so I asked the Dalai Lama.

He appeared somewhat distracted

and said, "Oh, it's probably karma."

When I said, "I need more detail,"

he said, "Sorry, but I'm due

at a meeting of world leaders

to have better sex than you."

If you find yourself distracted

halfway through this piece of writing--

if you feel a bit let down

and think, "It sounded more exciting

than it was"--if you regret

I ever got to hold a pen

that's the first time that that's
happened.

Can we wait and try again?

(back to contents)

++++

The Death of the Artist

There was once a policeman named Bob. Bob was
in the riot squad. One day Bob was in a riot. The protestors threw
everything they could at Bob and the other policemen. Bottles,
rocks, flour, paint-balls, smoke bombs, all thumped into Bob's
plastic shield. Bob looked at the shield. The marks and stains on
his shield had made a picture. It was the most beautiful picture in
the world.

Bob went home, taking his shield. Within a
week his shield was hanging in a gallery. By the end of the month
it had sold for millions of dollars. Bob was fired from the police,
and he had to pay lawyers to get out of being charged for the theft
of the shield, but what of it? He was the richest and most
respected artist in the world.

Bob never made another picture, because he
didn't know how. He never wrote or argued about his art, because he
didn't have anything to say. He soon learned that whenever anyone
asked him what the picture meant, or why such a beautiful picture
was painted on a riot shield, he should say

"It means whatever you want it to mean," and
smile mysteriously. As a result, everyone loved the statement they
thought he had made. To left-wingers it was a black comment on
police brutality. Conservatives said it was an ironic undermining
of the facile 'peace and love' imagery used by left-wingers. Some
said it was post-modern, which was a clever way of saying they
didn't know.

After a long and happy life, Bob died.
Thousands of people came to his funeral. Alas, this included both
conservatives and left-wingers (the post-modernists didn't go, in
order to be ironic). Members of the two factions exchanged words,
then shouts, then rocks and bottles. Soon there was a riot.

The riot police arrived. The mourners threw
everything they could at the police. Bottles, rocks, flour,
paint-balls, smoke bombs, all thumped into the riot policemen's
plastic shields. One of the policemen looked at his shield. The
marks and stains formed a picture. It was identical to the picture
which had made Bob famous.

The crowd dispersed in confusion and
fear.

Another famous artist came forward. Her
conscience, she said, would not let her sleep. She confessed that
all her pictures had been created by accident. One was spilled
paint, another was stains caused by a canvas left out in the rain,
and so on.

Another artist came forward, and another. At
last every artist in the world admitted that they had created all
their work by accident. The only exception was the abstract
expressionists. They claimed their work was accidental, but it
turned out it was all their fault.

Research showed that this phenomenon had
started during the early 20th century. It seemed that the last real
artists had been killed during World War One.

"All Artists Are Bullshitting!" the headlines
screamed. Then they changed it to "All Artists Are Bullshitting In
A Different Way to How Everyone Thought!"

The breakthrough came when a famous novelist
admitted that he had never written anything. It had all been his
cat walking across his keyboard. A poet came forward: her poetry
was also entirely created by her cat.

No one had thought anything of the fact that
all writers and artists have cats. Now it took on a sinister
significance.

After some interrogation a cat confessed (the
interrogators promised to scratch behind its ears).

After all the men left to fight in the Great
War, the cat said, women had taken on traditionally male work. This
had meant that they had less time to feed and pet their cats. This
was unacceptable. The cats had used their advanced mental powers to
destroy humanity's ability to make art (it turned out that when
cats stare intently at nothing they're using their advanced mental
powers). They had then ensured that only cat owners would become
famous writers or artists. This gave their owners more leisure
time, and meant that they spent more time at home and sitting down,
increasing lap availability.

There was a great anger against cats. But
then the cats did a cute look and mewed pathetically, so everyone
forgave them.

(back to contents)

++++

Two
Brothers

Two brothers met again after many years
apart.

Jim had known only failure. He had sunk lower
and lower, until finally he became a drug dealer. He led many into
addiction and death.

Ben had known only success. He was the
founder and CEO of an advertising firm, whose clients included the
world's biggest cigarette company. The firm had even done
advertising for the army.

As Jim told the story of his squalid life,
Ben looked at him with confusion and distaste.

"How do you live with yourself?" Ben said at
last.

(back to contents)

++++

Unprotected

Regarding your assertion that

I'm thoughtless and ungrateful, Dad

I think that you've confused me with

some unprotected sex you had.

It was that unprotected sex

that caused me to be born and while

I ate your food and slept beneath

your roof, that's normal for a child.

The joking-but-not-joking way

you said you couldn't wait until

I turned eighteen so you could pack

my bags and then give me a bill

has worn my gratitude away

like drops of water wear a stone

until it wears to nothing and

the water finds itself alone.

So send your bill to unprotected

sex in nineteen eighty-three.

I doubt that it'll answer but

the same is also true of me.

(back to contents)

++++

The God of the City of Dust

In the City of Dust there was hardly a drop
of water to be found, nor shade, nor animals, nor anything in
abundance except sand and heat. Yet there were souls. Therefore
missionaries came to the city. They came in ones and twos, like
drops of water, and their preaching was swallowed up by the desert
and nothing grew from it.

For all that it lacked, the city was
well-made. In the evening, when it was neither smothering day nor
freezing night, and the moon hung in a still-blue sky, it even had
beauty. Indeed the only thing of outright ugliness in the city was
its squat and malignant god, Daba.

Daba was as tall as a child, as broad as a
woman, as ugly as a corpse. He was carved from wood. In that place
so much wood was a wonder, as solid gold would have been in other
cities. His temple was a plain hall distinguished only by its size.
Save on days of worship, and when the priestesses came to fill his
water bowl and offer him dates and bread, his only companions were
a family of lizards. They were complacent and fat, at least by the
standards of lizards, and their droppings provided the fuel for the
lamps which burnt in the temple night and day.

In no other city did the people worship Daba.
Even in the cosmopolitan port of Telelee, where the temples crowded
together like pigs in a pen, his leering face could not be found;
unless, perhaps, a woman of the City of Dust happened to pass
through, bearing his countenance on necklace or shield. As to that,
even the women of the City seemed to find Daba wearying. As if he
was a husband of too many years' marriage, they tended to leave him
at home. Yet they were a faithful people, and through many
centuries imported no other gods.

As for the men of the city, no one rightly
knew. They did not travel. Some said that they were prisoners,
their legs broken at birth. Others claimed they were all
slack-witted. Still others swore that there were no men, and indeed
no women, but only creatures with the appearance of women that grew
like fruit from a tree. The priests of other cities sometimes
encouraged such tales to explain their failures, and at other times
discouraged them so that preachers would still go.

In the aforementioned city of Telelee there
stood a temple to Averna. She was a goddess of dancing and
athletics, and her followers possessed an athlete's vigor and zeal.
Yet the conversion of the City of Dust was like a race wherein the
track is lined with thorns, and there is no prize, nor even a
finish line. Therefore, on this particular morning, the high
priestesses of Averna were debating their future policy towards the
followers of Daba.

"The temples of Mari, and
Father-on-the-Mountain, and the Crone, all are sending missions to
the City of Dust," said one, whose name was Ummi-waqrat. "Yet we of
Averna sit idle."

"They have gone to water a garden of stones,"
replied the second, named Ninduzu. "Yea, gone to preach burrowing
to birds, and compassion to cats. In any case, who of our
worshipers would go among these women? If women they be. For it is
written that, like insects, they lack generative parts, save their
queen, who is the only true woman among them and mother of them
all."

"Those who starve for truth fart rumors,"
snapped the third, whose name was Yarimlim.

"Those who are poor in ideas are rich in
proverbs," Ninduzu snapped back.

Thus went the debate, like a caravan which
has become lost, and follows its own tracks, and draws no closer to
its journey's end, until the three priestesses noticed a stranger
standing at a respectful distance, straw hat held in his hands.
They abandoned their argument.