The Diary of Destiny

 Knowing Your Destiny

Part 6 of 30

Cue the eerie music, an accusatory drone. Our man of destiny, Joe Mattuck, knows in an instant the hottest spotlight shines on him, a guilty man so very used to the shadows. He’s heard of spotlights, like everyone, but it’s not until you stand in the full beam that you know how utterly stark it is, especially at this close proximity. The heat, so very toasty, unpleasantly so, compounds the intensity with his own burning guilt. "Why'd I steal that doughnut when I was 5?"

The voice of Destiny then, in every way a menacing, all-knowing presence, speaks from somewhere, as though the voice of every man's conscience. It calls him by name and Joe feels himself getting hot, very hot under the collar, with the first signs of a sweaty downpour beading-up on his forehead, becoming within seconds a literal spillway of self-incrimination and guilt. Joe thinks, "I'll be sloshing my way out of here, if I don't drown first."

It's always the same on Destiny's arrival, offering its calling card and standing on ceremony. There's no preliminaries, no warm-up act, no pussyfooting around, no perfunctory Miranda rights, no excuses of mistaken identity, no DNA check. It doesn’t matter if you’ve burnt off your fingerprints with acid, or if you’ve somehow fooled Santa Claus, or if Father Murphy’s carried you on his back, or if you’ve been knighted a saint of the Church. If you’re guilty, Destiny knows. And closes in on you, as close as your own swampy breath, your confused DNA, and your throbbing boom-chicka heartbeat, which becomes progressively, steadily louder, thump, thump, thump, boom-chicka until the querying porch lights of neighboring homes as far as 10 miles away twinkle on and off in wonderment, a kind of hush all over the world.

Only then does Destiny speak, its voice disembodied, an ethereal patient monotone, completely under control and persistent, knowing you're cornered with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Every hiding place, down to the minute space between the wallpaper and the wall, is closed to you. Destiny speaks your name again -- "Joe Mattuck." Maybe the FBI couldn’t find you, the CIA, the KGB, insurance salesmen, junk calls. Even mosquitoes on hot summer nights wondered where the hell you went. Your own sweat didn’t know where to look, pooling up in vain near a neighbor’s basement door, in a desperate struggle to find donor pores in which to maintain its survival.

“Joe Mattuck,” Destiny says. Again, there’s no rush, it drones on, recounting from its own enormous Diary of your life, your great guilt. (cf. Diary of Destiny, Vol. 894, page 1249ff.) It’s a horrible recounting and you remember every lascivious moment right down to that supposedly cleansing ritual of you and the guys burning their underwear on that camping trip when you were 12. And telling one another, “We’re free and clear, guys, the evidence is gone!”

Remember, Destiny plays no favorites. It could happen to you!

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Based on the old radio drama “Diary of Fate.” Its 25 episodes are available free online.

The Most Attractive Men

Part 25 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

What do I find attractive? Depends on the day and the eyes I wake up with. But attractive or not, everything's off limits till we boldly go after it. Rubber stamp a court order, barge in, this is a take-down, a shakedown. And the rules are on our side. It's a bad time to be a perp. Even if I only imagine myself doing something criminal or psychotic I know how they'll take me down. That's a good perspective to have. And that the two ends of every life are birth and death.

Attractive? Sure, my mind goes there. I mentioned kindergarten teachers before; they've got it goin' on, even as I consciously wonder, "Who do you think you're fooling? It's been done to death." Then there's tougher gals, making the two extremes, innocent and guilty. We just covered all-night waitresses. And there's everyone else, of every tribe and nation. I used to see those pictures of naked ladies from other tribes and a bone in their nose and not get it. I get it now. The guys there are desperate.

So we're looking at the balance between the absolute innocent and the absolute wanton. And there's a lot to that — it’s in the myths, the mommy that babies you and the mother who guts and fillets you. I hope waitresses will forgive the jab, but next time I’m in your joint how about a grin for the road and not the blunt end of a frown? You could've killed me in the crib but you didn't.

Sure, accused men, even the psychotic, are attractive, the center of their own nucleus and gravity. Who doesn't know that? The law swarms them, never to their liking. Even if the accusation isn't immediately clear, round up the usual suspects and we'll sort it out. In the picture Josef K acts like he doesn't know why he's under arrest. When the evidence is everywhere. He can't contain it. Everywhere he goes he's clearly seen, bad behavior massively askew and guilt pouring everywhere through the cracks. He could've just died in the opening scene rather than stringing us along and gumming up the works. Dispatch him quickly and give us the rest of the day off.

But if we must work, let's work... Get on with the important mission of spotting the guilty, the confused, the infirm. Frankly, it’s all I can do not to tackle and arrest people simply for their own good. You see them a mile away and what they’re up to. You know where they go and you know what they do there. There's no reason to hide behind niceties, it's disgusting. And if I know that much, there's no denial of the rest. We started out with enough to go on, pal. Let’s get you some help, if you'll submit before it's too late. And if it takes pouring money into another ambulance or two -- I'd love to have a vacation instead -- so be it. Every little bit helps.

You all have something you can do to speed things along: Don't hide in the shadows. Surrender immediately, confess. We're not going away. We're going to get you hook or crook. But you'll be fine. What exactly are you trying to protect? What you've got's no good; let's make it better. You know me. I'm against all wanton feeling up, all invasiveness. It never happens. Don't listen to anyone. I'll cuddle you like you were my own family jewels.
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Photo from movie "The Trial," starring Anthony Perkins. From the novel by Franz Kafka.

I Pour Contempt On All My Pride

It's time for a whole new life, of course strictly applied first to myself. No more pride! Bring out the buckets of pride killer, that I may pour contempt on all my pride! From here on out, my richest gain I shall count but loss.

Realistically, I don't have that much to be proud of. And that's not the declaration, the bitter words of a guy down in the dumps, because I'm not. By any true measure, I'm on top of the world. It's just that I've suddenly realized -- call it a much needed awakening, a kick in the spiritual pants -- that pride is basically worthless. I'm saying it by proxy for everyone else, too. Forbid it, that any of us should boast!

Am I guilty of overweening pride? I sure am. Like I just said, I believe it applies to everyone but I start with myself. All the vain things truly have charmed me, along with everyone else. So much so that I was essentially blinded to it. That's a weird thing about pride. It gets hold of you and it becomes your nature, it seems natural. But then you suddenly wake up and go "Whoa!" This isn't how it should be.

At least that's what I'm discovering. I'm in the process of discovering how deep it goes. It appears to go very deep, right where you dwell, to the most central part of your being. You start struttin' like a peacock, and everyone else is gagging. So you start thinking, "Bring in the buckets!"

That's a very vivid way of putting it, "Bring in the buckets! Summon the Bucket Brigade! Fill 'em up to the very brim, the buckets! And not just the buckets, but pots and pans, too, anything that serves to hold pride killer and contempt!" This is great stuff. And how about this? Cook it, too! Cook it! Put it on the fire! Crank up the heat! Get it good and boiling! This is going to burn, it's going to scald! Sounds terrible, really, but that's what I need!

I'm making it a public thing, the rigorous dousing I'm taking. It's right here in public, something that anyone with internet access can witness. Please link to this blog post. Let me be the guy who put it out there. I might be able to inspire others to pour contempt on their pride. I'll take the first step. The pride killer and contempt is boiling hot; please, turn it up some more!

Yes, I know this is going to hurt like bloody heck. Because I have all the pans totally boiling, so they're even starting to melt a little around the edges. The handles are piping hot. You'll need two potholders to get a grasp on them. And now here goes nothing...

My pride is getting the biggest scalding of its pathetic life! The cure demands my soul, my life, my all!